


Come Fly With Me

by FreyaOdin



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Airplanes, Airports, Alternate Universe, Angst, Aviation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not everyone with a high voice is a girl Scott, Pilots, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Radio, Romance, air traffic control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23141053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin
Summary: Scott's a little in love with the new air traffic controller at DFW, as much as he can be for someone he's never seen and who isn't even the right gender for him. She's always professional, but has a sense of fun, and her voice is warm and friendly whenever she's not overstressed. And when she is, or when someone fucks up, she's sassy and sometimes snarky as hell.And okay, maybe it's not really love, but there's a definite girl crush happening, which only seems to grow the more he interacts with her. He's friendly and flirty and happily admires her from afar, and she's just as friendly in response, once she recognizes his voice.But holy shit, he lives in fear of screwing up on her watch and having all that beautiful snark turned on him.
Relationships: Mitch Grassi/Scott Hoying
Comments: 93
Kudos: 122





	1. Aviate

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to [Ehcimocs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ehcimocs) for the beta, as well as for designing the lovely cover. She's primarily found on Wattpad, so go check out [her work.](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs)
> 
> Welcome to my new nerdy interest, now in fic form...

The first time Scott hears the voice, he’s just landed at his home airport after an eleven hour flight from Paris.

“This is American 49 Heavy for Ground,” he says over the radio, as Kirstie, his captain for the flight and one of his closest friends, exits the runway onto taxiway Yankee. The exhilaration he still feels with each and every landing is just starting to fade from his veins, and he can tell from Kirst’s grin she feels the same. 

“American 49 Heavy, welcome to Dallas,” says a pleasant-sounding, high-pitched voice. “Continue on Yankee, hang a right on Golf, and hold short of Zulu. Where do you need to enter the apron for your gate?”

“Continuing on Yankee, right on Golf and will hold short of Zulu, American 49. Uh…” Scott double checks his gate assignment. Wouldn’t do to accidentally head for the wrong one. “Whiskey Kilo would be the best entrance.”

“Copy, American 49 Heavy. Just a moment while I deal with an imminent problem so you don’t have to.”

Scott cocks an eyebrow and shares a glance with Kirstie. She shrugs and continues taxiing as directed. Imminent problems and airplanes are rarely good news, but it sounds like the ground controller is on top of whatever this one is.

“Tango 225, where the heck are you going?” the controller asks. 

“Left on Zulu, hold short of runway 35 Left as you directed, Tango 225,” answers a staticky male voice.

“Yeah, see the problem is I told you _right_ on Zulu, because that’s where 35 Left is. If you keep going, you’re going to meet up with a 787 which will crush you like a bug. Since that would ruin my day and theirs, what you’re going to do instead is to give way to American and then turn right on Golf, right again on Yankee and get back from whence you came.”

“You told me _left_ on Zulu,” the pilot insists.

Scott rolls his eyes, and both Kirstie and Wade, the relief pilot sitting behind them, snort. Arguing with air traffic control rarely goes well. Tango is the callsign of privately chartered planes, so Scott’s guessing Tango 225 is the fancy little Gulfstream at the intersection just ahead of them.

Sure enough, the controller doesn’t tolerate bullshit. “Feel free to pull the tapes on your own time, Tango 225. Right now, I’m busy, the airport is busy, and all the other pilots are busy, including the ones in the American 787 approaching you. So give way to them, then turn right on Golf, right Yankee, and hold short of Kilo. I’ll get back to you with your number to call for your possible deviation and you can discuss it with them.”

Heh, nothing like throwing the word _‘_ deviation _’_ out there to get everyone focused on listening. No one wants to risk their inability to follow directions and resulting spat escalating up official channels.

“Give way to the American Airlines 787,” answers the sullen voice. “Right Golf, right Yankee, hold short Kilo, Tango 225.”

“Thank you,” the controller replies with overdone cheerfulness. “Okay, American 49 Heavy, wave to the lost one-percenters on your left, then cross Zulu, continue until Whiskey Kilo, and turn left to enter the apron for your gate.”

Kirstie laughs and Scott smiles as he keys his mic. “Wave to the lost rich people, cross Zulu, turn left on Whiskey Kilo for the apron. American 49, thank you!”

“Ah, competence. I love it. Have a good one!”

“Well, she’s awesome,” Kirstie says as she eases them across Zulu, and Scott has to agree. He’s always amused when air traffic controllers show a little personality, so he likes this one. 

He, Kirstie, and Wade even wave at the grumpy pilots as ordered as they pass the stopped Gulfstream.

They don’t get a wave back.

***

Scott most often flies to Paris, London, or Munich and then back a couple of days later, but sometimes he has a few shorter weekday hops around the US to max out his flying schedule and increase his takeoff and landing counts. And sometimes he has longer stints to Shanghai, Beijing, Sydney, or Tokyo, depending on which trips he successfully bid on that month. 

He didn’t think any controller could amuse him more than the recently retired Kennedy Steve of JFK, but the new woman at Dallas is rapidly becoming his favorite. She’s often in charge of Tower, where she keeps the runways, take-offs, and landings safe for everyone, or Clearance, where she ensures everyone has the details and approvals they need to follow their assigned flight routes. But her personality really shines when she’s in charge of Ground, getting hundreds of planes per day to and from the active runways along DFW’s complex system of taxiways. 

She’s always professional, but has a sense of fun, and her voice is warm and friendly whenever she’s not overstressed. And when she _is_ overstressed, or when someone fucks up, she’s sassy and sometimes snarky as hell. Scott’s a little in love with her, as much as he can be for someone he’s never seen and who isn’t even the right gender for him. And okay, maybe it’s not really love, but there’s a definite girl crush happening, which only seems to grow the more he interacts with her. He’s friendly and flirty and happily admires her from afar, and she’s just as friendly in response, once she recognizes his voice. 

But holy shit, he lives in fear of screwing up on her watch and having all that beautiful snark turned on _him_.

***

Mitch settles into life at DFW just fine. It’s hectic, but he’s used to that, coming from LAX. Stress-wise, the two airports are much the same, both major hubs in major cities. But here, he’s closer to his family and farther away from his ex, and that’s all the change he was looking for when he decided to move back to Texas.

Plus, he gets to work with his friend Esther, and as she’s the reason he decided to become a controller in the first place, it feels like he’s come full circle. 

He’s been at this job for about five months and he’s already started to develop some favorites among the pilots he directs every day. There’s a gruff FedEx guy who sounds like an eighty-five-year-old pack-a-day smoker and comes in and out like clockwork, no muss, no fuss, no complaints. There’s an Air Canada captain who goes out of her way to bitch about the heat on every single one of her hops back and forth from Toronto. Mitch looks forward to her creativity as she effectively conveys her opinions in exquisite detail, all without breaching FCC radio regulations on cursing. It’s definitely an art form that Mitch is familiar with, but he‘s a big proponent of life-long learning and she’s an excellent teacher.

And then there’s an American Airlines first officer who comes through once or twice a week. He has a light, pleasant voice that does things for Mitch, and better still, he’s competent and he always gets Mitch’s jokes, sometimes playing along if traffic is slow enough to allow it. Occasionally, Mitch even thinks he’s flirting, although he knows it’s nothing personal. At least, that’s what he tells himself during his attempts to stop fantasizing about what the guy might look like and how good a pilot would have to be at handling a stick.

***

It’s a Sunday, which is almost always on the boring side since there’s less traffic. But there’s also less stress, so Mitch can take the time to have more fun with his directions. He hopes today’s cache of pilots are good sports.

He’s in luck, because when the American Dreamliner from London checks in and it’s his honey-toned not-crush on the frequency. “Hey there, American 51 Heavy for Ground. We’ve just rolled off 36 Right onto Foxtrot 1.”

Mitch smiles, glancing out the windows of the tower to see the plane in real life rather than just on his console. “Welcome back, American 51 Heavy,” he says, and it comes out far more warmly than he means it to. “Cross Foxtrot onto Whiskey Juliet, hold short of Golf.”

“Yes, ma’am,” comes the instant response, voice as friendly as it always is, although the honorific is new. “American 51 Heavy crossing Foxtrot onto Whiskey Juliet, will hold short of Golf.”

 _Ma’am_. Mitch often gets called ma’am. It’s not all that surprising given the pitch of his voice, and frankly his views on gender are more flexible than most, so he generally couldn’t care less. It means he’s subjected to more sexism than he would be otherwise, but at least this way he’s helping the more Neanderthalic male pilots get used to hearing and taking directions from people with higher-pitched voices without having to internalize the bullshit quite as much as his female colleagues do. For the most part, anyways.

Most of the time, everything is fine and he just takes the error as a compliment. 

Yet for some reason, he wants this guy to know he’s male, even though it’ll no doubt spell the end of any flirting that may or may not have been happening between them. It feels wrong to leave him in the dark. There’s probably a lot to unpack there, but Mitch doesn’t bother and just says, “Your readback is correct, American 51. Except I’m not a ma’am, sis.”

The ‘sis’ comes out by accident, although Mitch doesn’t really regret it once it’s said. Might as well go all in with the reveal, right? 

There’s a long pause. Mitch isn’t sure what it means, if anything, and he’s afraid his not-crush is about to disappoint him with some Neanderthalic views of a different type. But after a moment, the pilot says: “American 51 Heavy, now holding short of Golf. My apologies, hunty. How can I make it up to you?”

Oh. Oh, wow. _Hunty_ . No straight man would call him hunty, right? Especially not over an open frequency? Hell, a straight man probably wouldn’t even know the term. So that there has to be some flirting of the gay variety, right? 

_Please, God, if you love me._

“I’m tempted to send you on a wild goose chase as a show of repentance, American 51,” is what he says. “However, there are these things called safety regulations and I’d just be inconveniencing myself getting you there and back in one piece.” Rein it in, Mitch. Remember that thing you have to do called your job? “So how about you just give way to the JetBlue from your right, then follow it to Whiskey Kilo for the apron?”

“American 51 Heavy. Follow JetBlue to the apron via Whiskey Kilo.” He’s smiling, Mitch can hear it in his voice. “For the record, when I’m not working, I appreciate a good chase. You should come fly with me sometime.”

Okay, well. _That_ sounds promising.

***

Scott wakes up a week later to the chime of a text message. He’s disoriented at first -- he was caught in a ton of delays, had his flight home last night cancelled due to weather, and ended up in a different Munich hotel than his usual, so he doesn’t immediately recognize where he is -- but then he sources the reason he’s awake and brings his phone into squinting distance.

It’s from Kirstie. 

>> ur famous! http://youtu.be/aal6226

The fuck? Last he heard, she was supposed to be in Jakarta. Apparently she’s having a boring night...morning...he pauses and checks local time before giving up on the math as too much for his caffeineless state to manage. Apparently she’s having a boring whatever-the-fuck-time-of-day-it-is in Indonesia, to be sending him random videos out of nowhere.

He clicks the link, and finds a video titled: “Dallas Mitch(iet) finds his Romeo?”

He’s always been amused by the popularity of any ATC recording that’s even slightly unusual. Sometimes they’re funny incidents or ridiculous arguments between pilots and controllers. Sometimes they’re great examples of competence narrowly avoiding disaster. Sometimes they’re horrific, which are unfortunately the ones Scott’s seen the most, because learning from other pilots’ mistakes can help prevent his own. In any case, they all end up on YouTube and some of the videos are pretty cool, complete with little plane position diagrams and color codings. 

It’s just that he never expected to star in one. But when he starts watching, it is indeed his most recent interaction with his favorite controller, trimmed for time and subtitled for all to see. 

Scott winces as he hears himself misgender the controller -- Mitch apparently -- feeling a flush of embarrassment roll over him again just like it did on the flight deck. Then he blows out a relieved breath, because the tone of the reply reassures him that no, it wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part; Mitch didn’t sound hurt or offended. He remembers the thrill that went through him as he registered what the combination of Mitch being a guy and the ‘sis’ tacked onto the end of the correction might mean.

And then he’s back to wincing at his overly forward response, but at least the subtitles misquote ‘hunty’ as ‘honey’. He’s not entirely sure how the FCC would take ‘hunty’, and so he’s grateful to have plausible deniability if someone decides to complain.

The comment section is illuminating, at least the part of it that’s not wildly offensive. Mitch is apparently quite famous in the community, and Scott’s misgendering mistake is a common one. It’s the fact that Mitch bothered correcting him at all that surprises everyone. Scott doesn’t know what that means, but it must mean something, right? Maybe?

At least now he has a name to go with the voice he likes so much. _Mitch_. 

Scott checks the time again. He still has two hours before he has to leave for the airport and he’s unlikely to get back to sleep now. 

He clicks on one of the linked videos under the first, and finds himself sucked into the world of ATC internet fame where Mitch is a shining star, both in his previous job at LAX and now continuing in his role at DFW. 

Scott has never fallen in love with someone he’s never seen, but he’s well on the way to doing so right now. 

**To be continued…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kennedy Steve is a real air traffic controller, now retired, who spent 28 years working the skies of NYC. Much of Mitch’s on the job persona, minus the flirting, is based on recordings of Steve’s work. Not mentioned in the story, but also with a similar style, is Pearson Dave of Toronto. Aviation Youtube is a real thing. 


	2. Navigate

Of course, along with Mitch's favorite pilots, there are also his _un_ favorites. Like this guy, an American Airlines captain who can never seem to grasp that the world doesn't revolve around him. Mitch privately refers to him as Douchey McDickface, which isn't a particularly creative nickname, but it's Esther-approved, so Mitch keeps it.

"Why didn't you just tell me to do that in the first place instead of making me taxi all the way out here?" Douchey whines. And okay, maybe it's not technically a whine, but that's what it translates to in Mitch's head.

And 'all the way out here' is literally 800 feet past where Mitch wants to return him to. It's sometimes a struggle not to turn this guy's nickname into his callsign, but Mitch has razor sharp focus when he needs to and not just for keeping everyone in the planes around him alive.

"Well, American 50 Heavy, my crystal ball failed to tell me the luck of the Irish would blow a tire in the middle of your assigned runway. So, if you're dead set on departing from 18 Right, you can sit there and wait while we find a tow for the damaged Aer Lingus, determine if it's safe to move, possibly deplane all its passengers right where it currently sits, figure out how we _can_ move the plane, and then clean up all the resulting junk as well as the originally deceased tire shrapnel so the runway is once more pristine and safe to use. Or, and hear me out now, you can turn on Echo for Whiskey Golf and wait your turn for 18 Left like I asked. I figure that'll shave somewhere between two and six hours off your departure time, but it's completely up to you."

There's a moment of silence as Douchey no doubt digests this, and then: "American 50 Heavy, no need to be snippy. What a waste of time."

Mitch isn't sure if Douchey meant to key his mic off before that last sentence, but either way it has him biting back a response that would catch him a disciplinary hearing if he let it out.

Before he can formulate something more appropriate, the stuck Aer Lingus pilot responds. "Shamrock 5135 here. I do apologize for wasting your time, good sir." And wow, the lilt is about ten times stronger than it was five minutes ago when he first reported his problem. Mitch is kind of in love with how well it emphasizes his sarcasm. "I'm sure _you've_ never flown an aircraft that's caused an inconvenience to anyone around you. Our dear ATC has her hands full expediting everyone around my mess, so try not to be a complete arse while she gets you on your way, yeah?"

"He can't even help it," an unknown voice with a thick New York accent adds. Mitch suspects it's the JetBlue A320 three planes back, but he's not sure. "Being a complete 'arse' comes naturally to him."

Mitch suppresses a laugh and tries to regain control of the situation. He does need to rework a shitton of planes around a closed runway, after all. It's going to be a long day. "Okay, thanks, peanut gallery. American 50 Heavy, state intentions. Traffic is building."

There's a brief pause, and then, to Mitch's surprise, a different and far more welcome voice comes on frequency. "Uh, American 50 Heavy. We're of course going to turn on Echo for Whiskey Golf and get in line for 18 Left. Thanks for your help."

Oh, it's Mitch's current favorite. Romeo, as YouTube has dubbed him, must be Douchey McDickface's first officer for the flight. Mitch lets his voice soften. "Okay, thank you, American 50 Heavy. Now then, Speedbird 1589 Heavy. You're up next for 18 Left. Contact Tower at 124.15."

"Speedbird 1589 Heavy, changing to 24.15," says the British pilot. "Good luck with the arse."

Mitch isn't sure if Speedbird meant to bestow that luck on him, Aer Lingus, or Romeo, but in any case, "Appreciated."

***

Scott makes the mistake of laughing at Speedbird's comment and Mitch's dry response, which isvery much _not_ appreciated by his asshole of a captain, and thus his flight from DFW to Heathrow that day is the longest nine hours of his life.

***

Three days later, after a schedule change that meant a far more pleasant flight back with a far more pleasant captain in the left seat, Scott's feeling brave. He smiles as they exit the runway and are greeted by Mitch's voice when they identify themselves on Ground's frequency.

"Hey there, American 49 Heavy. Continue taxiing on Bravo, and hold short of 18 Left."

"American 49 Heavy, continuing Bravo, short of 18 Left." Scott takes a deep breath. "Question for you, Ground, when you have a second?"

There's a slight pause on the radio, which gives Scott time to smile wanly at Kevin's curious look. Scott has a feeling they'll end up being friends, he and Kevin. They got along really well during the flight, with several mutual interests and complementary senses of humor. It was a great time. But he hasn't mentioned his plan because he doesn't want to be talked out of it, and it wouldn't take much to talk him out of it because it's a _terrible_ plan.

Eventually, Mitch responds with, "Just a minute, American 49. Japanair 11 Heavy, hold short of 18 Left, contact tower at 124.15. Have a good one."

"Holding short 18 Left, 124.15, Japanair 11 Heavy. Bye bye."

"Bye! Envoy 3963, you get any word yet on your gate?"

"Negative, Ground," says a woman's voice. "We're still chilling out here on Golf 6. We'll let you know when we can move, Envoy 3963."

"Sounds like fun," Mitch says. There's another pause. "Okay, American 49. After the Japanair takes off, cross 18 Left and then turn left on Foxtrot to Whiskey Lima for the apron. Confirm, then ask your question."

"American 49, waiting for Japanair to take off, then cross 18 Left, take Foxtrot to Whiskey Lima for the apron." Scott calls back, watching the Japanese Boeing 777 start its roll and noting down their taxiing instructions. "And my question is, what time do you get off tonight?"

Kevin whistles under his breath. "Holy crap, you did _not_ just do that."

Scott _did_ just do that. And he feels faintly sick about it, because if he gets shot down, it'll not only be in front of the twenty or so sets of pilots that are on this frequency right now, but also everyone in the airport, because pilots are the _worst_ gossips on the planet. Not to mention everyone who follows the YouTube channels that immortalize Mitch's more interesting conversations, because he has no illusions about this not making the cut. And oh yeah, right, he's breaking regulations.

"Dang, kid," says Envoy's voice, which does not at all help Scott's levels of panic. "I'm impressed."

"Hmm," Mitch finally says, and Scott can hear his smile even if he can't yet picture it. "I'm done with work in about an hour, American 49. I suppose I could wait around outside customs for you, if you like, and then maybe we can see about answering your question?"

It takes Scott a minute to get it. In his defense, he's busy scanning for traffic and other obstacles as they cross the runway and turn onto Foxtrot. It's the hooting, laughter, and wolf whistles from the other pilots on the channel that really clue him in to Mitch's meaning.

A glance at Kevin's grin confirms that yes, his face really has turned as red as it feels. He tabs the radio. "Roger, Ground," is all he says. "I would like that very much."

He's totally going to get a write-up for improper use of the channel, especially considering the continuing noise from the other aircraft as they each feel the need to add to the teasing. But he's got a date with Mitch, so he can't bring himself to care.

***

An hour and a bit later, Mitch is cursing himself for not being more specific about where he'd meet Romeo. He's leaning on a wall opposite the main exit door for customs, perking up every time an American Airlines pilot comes through the doors. The problem is that American is headquartered at DFW, which means there are a hell of a lot of them. It's even more ridiculous because he knows it's too soon for his particular pilot to have completed his post-flight handoff, his report, and made his through immigration, but here he is waiting anyway.

All the logic in the world doesn't stop his brain from considering each and every pilot that walks past him. He can't quite believe that he's agreed to a date with someone he's never laid eyes on and whose name he doesn't know. Even with Grindr and Tinder, he's always seen a photo, accurate or not, and had a name before agreeing to go out with someone. This is weird for him, but also exhilarating.

He's fond enough of the guy's voice and sense of humor that he's sure they can have a pleasant dinner and perhaps become friends, even if there's no chemistry and the romance is a bust. That doesn't stop him from hoping the dude is at least moderately attractive to go with his warm voice.

Another AA pilot goes by, a 50-something white guy a bit on the short side. He's looking at his phone rather than at anyone around and makes a B-line for the exit, so that's obviously not him. Mitch breathes a sigh of relief. He's only 32 himself, so there's a good chance that his pilot will be a substantial number of years older than him, but he's hoping it's not quite that many.

After another fifteen minutes, there's a more promising option. A tall, handsome, black pilot comes through the doors, peering around, obviously searching for someone. He's somewhere between 35 and 40, and _wow_ , okay shoulders and yes, hello, if he's Romeo, Mitch is definitely not complaining because _damn_.

But even as the pilot's gaze passes over Mitch and then returns, eyeing him up and down, Mitch frowns. He's wearing four stripes on his sleeves, not three. He's a captain, not a first officer, and so he can't be Mitch's date. That's disappointing. But then the captain smiles at him, and it makes him even more attractive, which makes the fact that he isn't Romeo even more disappointing, and Mitch is just confused as hell.

A couple of seconds later, the captain turns and stops the next pilot to come through the doors with a hand on his shoulder and a nod in Mitch's direction.

This guy is white, somehow even taller, and has blond hair and most importantly three stripes on each of his sleeves. He turns to follow the captain's point and Mitch doesn't at all zone out admiring the cut of his jaw or the lines of his torso in that jacket. Or the way he not-so-subtly looks Mitch over. And okay, as much as Mitch is still regretful he won't get to date Captain Hottie there, his disappointment is fading to anticipation because the man who apparently _is_ Romeo is just as hot.

Romeo smiles at him, looking as nervous as Mitch feels. Captain Hottie says something that makes Romeo laugh and give his arm a backhanded swat, but then he's walking over.

He stops a couple of feet away. "Are you Mitch?"

Mitch raises an eyebrow. "Well, you have me at a disadvantage."

"Oh." Romeo flushes a becoming red. "I'm Scott. Scott Hoying. I, uh, I didn't stalk you. A friend sent me a YouTube video of one of our...chats." He grins then, some semblance of the cockiness Mitch expects from a pilot finally surfacing. "You're well enough known to have _fans_." His grin falters. "Uh, assuming that's your actual name, which, now that I think about it, might not be."

He's endearing in a way Mitch wasn't expecting, so he takes pity on him. "Yeah, it's my name. Mitch Grassi."

Scott's smile re-emerges. "Nice to officially meet you, Mitch Grassi. Can I take you to dinner?"

Yes. Yes, he can.

***

Dinner goes _well._ The sense of humor they share over the frequencies gets a hundred times better when they're not at risk of being fined for every curse word or innuendo that slips out of their mouths. They spend the whole meal talking and giggling and it's not awkward in the slightest.

Once their meals have been cleared, he grins at something Scott says and tilts his head back to get the last sip of wine out of his glass. When he's done, he finds Scott absently licking his lips, and his gaze is tracing the line of Mitch's jaw before rising to meet Mitch's own.

"Come home with me?" Scott asks, and Mitch nods without hesitation.

So much for not having any chemistry.

***

Scott's bedroom is warm, and his fingers are twisting just right, and it all feels fantastic but Mitch has had enough teasing. "Get your cock in me."

"Bossy," Scott says, sounding more fond than exasperated, which is a nice change from the last few guys Mitch has slept with.

"She knows what she likes," is what he says, letting his hand trace down his own torso and enjoying the way Scott's eyes follow it. "And it's my literal job to tell pilots what to do."

"We _are_ trained to obey ATC," Scott agrees. He leans over and nips his way across Mitch's hip. "But pilots can never forget that we're the ones responsible for the safety and comfort of our passengers." He curls his fingers again, and Mitch can't help but moan. "And so we're ultimately the ones in command of every flight."

Christ, yes okay. _Hot_. However, it doesn't change the immediate issue, which is, "Unless it's an emergency, you better have a damn good reason for deviating from instructions. And if you don't want it to become an emergency, you'll fuck me. Right now."

Scott snorts, but obediently sits up to reach for a condom. "Yes, ma'am."

**To be continued...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All pilots, controllers, and other personnel mentioned in this story are fictional, although Douchey McDickface is a loose composite of several pilots who've been recorded acting like their namesake.


	3. Communicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) for looking this over for me.
> 
> I hope you're all doing okay, or at least manageably poorly, in this clusterfuck of a timeline we're having. This fic is blessedly set in a different one.

"How's it going with First Officer Sexy?" Esther asks a month later, after a United 737 is cleared to land.

The airport is about as quiet as Mitch has ever seen it, weirdly so, but it's giving them some time to chat while Mitch listens in to the last five minutes of Vincint's shift on Tower, so he knows what's happening when he takes over.

"Things still good?" Esther adds.

"Great, actually." Even with how much fun he's been having with Scott, he's still somewhat surprised that he means it. It really has been going great. Relationships never go great for Mitch, so this is something of a revelation.

"Really?" Esther sounds as surprised as he is. He shoots her a look, and she shrugs, lowering her voice somewhat before adding, "I only ask because a lot of pilots tend to be...how shall I say this?"

"Egotistical assholes?" Mitch guesses.

She snaps and points at him. "That."

In the general sense, she's not wrong. "Scott isn't. He's been really sweet."

They listen to Vincint clear a UPS cargo flight for takeoff, call for maintenance to check out reported debris on Alpha, and then reassure a private pilot that everything was fine with their readback, before Esther asks, "It's getting serious then?"

He considers not telling her for a moment, but then concedes, "I think I might be falling for him."

"Wow," Esther says, and he decides to take that as a compliment. "I'm happy for you."

Mitch can't help but smile because, yeah. He is too.

***

"Come fly with me," Scott says one day, out of nowhere.

Mitch laughs. "Let's float down to Peru?"

Scott frowns at him. "I'd planned on renting a plane, sightseeing around town, and then maybe showing off for a bit if the skies are clear enough before landing." He tilts his head, considering. "But I could probably arrange Peru with some warning. Lima is nice."

Lima. Is. Nice. "Okay, first of all, I'm ashamed of wasting an ancient but completely on point reference on you. Second, you want me to, what? Go to an airport small enough the tower can just yell directions out the window, climb into a Cessna and let you hotdog around with me on board?"

"Okay, _first of all,_ no one under eighty says 'hotdog', which probably explains why I didn't get your Peru reference. Second, there is no tower. I appreciate towers. Your tower in particular is awesome, especially when you're running it. But thousands of small airports manage without one every day."

Oh, _great_. "I love that you think that's reassuring."

"You don't trust me?"

"I don't trust general aviation. It's full of amateurs. By definition."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Scott says, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed, "But the world's largest airline lets me fly hundreds of people around at a time in their quarter of a billion dollar airplanes." He waves a hand around in a loose circle. "It's almost as if they think I'm a professional."

Maybe it's the pout. Maybe it's the logic. Maybe it's the fact Scott's been off work for five days, so his stubble is starting to turn into a sexy scruff, which enhances the pout and makes Mitch forget the logic. In any case, Mitch finds himself agreeing, which is why he then finds himself at what's technically an airport the next day, sitting in a Cessna 172L Skyhawk that's almost twice as old as he is, while Scott does a walkaround inspection and talks to the airport manager like they're old friends, which Mitch supposes they are.

Scott's thorough, examining every inch of the plane from prop to tail, wingtips to gear, and then he's shaking the manager's hand and climbing into the left-hand seat beside Mitch. His hair is windswept, and it's kind of ridiculous how he's having to fold himself to get into the small plane, but his eyes are bright and his grin is wide and Mitch tries to swallow his anxiety as he watches Scott put on his headset. He obviously loves this, like really loves this, and so Mitch will try to enjoy it even though every part of him is screaming to get the fuck out and wait in the car.

After starting up the engine -- just the one engine, Jesus _Christ_ \-- and running a reassuringly long checklist, Scott smiles one more time at him, and then announces, "Sycamore traffic, Skyhawk 2864 Quebec taxiing to runway 35 for departure heading due north."

"Skyhawk at Sycamore, Cherokee 22 Papa turning left base for runway 17 on the downwind for a full stop," a young voice says over the radio

Scott peers out his window and nods. "Cherokee 22 Papa, Skyhawk 64 Quebec, traffic in sight. I'll hold short of the runway until you're clear."

And with that, Mitch breathes a little easier. He knows how non-towered airports and the common traffic advisory frequency work, intellectually, but it's nice to experience it actually functioning in practice.

Fuck uncontrolled or barely controlled airspace anyway.

After the little Cherokee is down, Scott compliments her smooth landing, and the teenage pilot cheerfully waves to them as she taxis by. Then Scott's lining up, and with one more announcement of his intentions, they're rolling and then up and away.

As reassuring as CTAF is in practice, Mitch is still happier once they enter truly controlled airspace and he knows there's someone listening who's officially responsible for keeping track of them should the shit hit the fan.

But with all his tension, Mitch has to admire the view. The city is beautiful. He's seen it from the air before, of course. He's travelled, most recently from LA, and has even sat in the jumpseat of a 737 a couple of times for ATC training, to become more familiar with the pilot perspective. But the experience is very different in a little four-seat prop plane a couple of thousand feet in the air.

Scott _is_ a professional, obviously, and he navigates the complicated flight paths and airspace around the Metroplex expertly, keeping traffic informed in uncontrolled air and communicating perfectly with ATC everywhere else. Mitch has to laugh when TRACON clears them through DFW's Class B airspace and it's Matt's distinctive bass — brisk and efficient and nothing at all like his warm, in-person persona — doing the clearing.

Scott doesn't seem to mind brisk and efficient. "That guy's voice is always seriously hot."

True, however, "If you're thinking of leaving me for Approach, you should know that Matt likes women and I'm vindictive."

"I'd never leave you for Approach," Scott assures him. "Departure, maybe. More poetic."

"He works that, too."

"I know," Scott agrees, smirking at him. "When you say he likes women, is that just women, or ..?"

"Don't make me kill you."

"You wouldn't."

"Only because I don't know how to land this thing."

They chat a bit, in between radio calls and scanning the skies for other planes that might be a danger to them. Scott apparently used to lease this Skyhawk with four of his friends back when he was building up flight hours before his first professional job. He's obviously emotionally attached to the tiny thing.

He's like a different person in the sky, like he's somehow both bigger and brighter, and while Mitch still isn't enjoying the experience to the fullness he could if he wasn't so anxious, he's sorry he doesn't get to see Scott like this more often.

The feeling holds until they're almost back to Sycamore, and Scott announces his intentions to practice some maneuvers out near Benbrook Lake.

Mitch side-eyes him. "What maneuvers?"

Scott smiles. "Nothing intense, I promise. The plane's not rated for aerobatics and we'd need parachutes, anyway. Just some chandelles and maybe a lazy eight or two. It'll be smooth and fun, I promise. I had to do like a million of these to get my commercial license."

The chandelles aren't too bad, not enjoyable, but not bad, just a banked turn up and 180 degrees. But after the first lazy eight, which might technically have been smooth but should never have been named 'lazy', it's becoming increasingly clear to Mitch that Scott's definition of _fun_ is not the same as his.

"Have I ever mentioned my hatred of roller coasters?" he says, hoping the tinny audio of their headsets is hiding the waver in his voice. Nothing is hiding the way his fingers are clenching on his knees. "All of them, even the kiddie ones."

"Really?" Scott says, glancing at him before returning to scanning the sky around them for traffic. "I love them."

The plane swoops up and banks the other way, and the horizon tilts along with it, and while Mitch has some idea of the limits and laws the FAA imposes, and knows Scott's not exceeding them, that doesn't help the lurch in his stomach or the fight or flight response coursing through his veins.

"Scott," he says calmly, once they've levelled off again. "If you don't land this plane right this fucking minute, I swear to God I will throw up all over this ancient equipment and we'll both die covered in vomit."

There's only a half-second delay before Scott is reaching for the radio. "Skyhawk 2864 Quebec, two miles west of Sycamore strip at the northern tip of Benbrook Lake, currently at 2300 feet, turning eastbound to return to Sycamore. Direct."

Very wise.

***

Scott makes it up to him later, once Mitch's stomach has calmed down. He's slow and thorough and eventually Mitch is a blissed out lump of unvindictive goo.

Definitely a more pleasant way to expand his horizons.

***

A week later, Mitch is having a shitty day.

It's not the shittiest his day could be. He hasn't made any career-ending errors, and no one has crashed, been hijacked, blown up, caught fire, or otherwise tragically died, so things could definitely be worse. But it's still shitty.

It's a Monday, which is always high traffic, and it's windy enough to cause departing pilots to delay takeoff and quite a few arriving ones to go around rather than risk landing. Then, just as the weather starts to cooperate, some schmuck leaves their bag unattended in Terminal 1, and its appearance is suspicious enough that a portion of the terminal is evacuated while the cops and bomb squad come have a look. Then, after that's dealt with and everything reopens, a motherfucking deer somehow manages to get over the perimeter fence and wanders out across 36 Left and then Right, suspending operations to that entire half of the airport until animal control removes it and maintenance clears both runways as free of debris. Which leaves Mitch and the rest of the shift dealing with a million more delayed flights, cranky pilots, stressed apron workers, and throbbing headaches.

"Okay, Qantas 3268 Heavy. You're in luck, your delay may not turn out to be as long as your flight." Mitch looks out the window and fails to find a Qantas 777 where his station tells him it should be. There's an American Airlines 777 in the exact location though. "Are you in disguise?"

"Roger, Ground," says an accent that's no more Australian than Mitch is. "We're trying to blend in, Qantas 3268."

Fucking joint ventures. "Nice camouflage."

"It's not at all confusing for everyone involved!" the pilot cheerfully responds.

No kidding. "Okay, Qantas 3268 Heavy, when you have a moment, you're going to inform company that they have to put atypical livery information on the flight strip so no one loses track of you. Meanwhile, follow Envoy down Foxtrot and join the line for 36 Right. Monitor 134.9. Have fun in Honolulu."

"Following Envoy to join the line for 36 Right. Will inform company of their faux pas. Switching to 34.9, Qantas 3268 Heavy. Mahalo!"

Mahalo. Thanks for rubbing it in. "Air Canada 8625, if I were to give you the choice between calling Clearance for a reroute or being stuck here another five hours, which would you choose?"

"Can I choose to just go home?" a woman's voice asks, presumably the pilot of 8625.

Mitch checks the readout for their destination. YVR. "Do you live in Vancouver?"

"Halifax."

Ouch. "Well, that's entirely the wrong direction."

"And they say Americans don't understand geography."

Mitch snorts. "They let us play with the big boy maps in ATC school."

The pilot laughs. "We'll call for the reroute, Air Canada 8625."

"Good choice, let me know when you're ready to move again. Okay, American 2583. What's your story?"

"American 2583. We're still waiting on our gate. Where do you want us?"

"Cleveland."

There's a snort. "I hear that."

"Stay where you are for now, 2583. I'll figure something out."

"Staying put, American 2583."

Good boy. "Great, thank you." What's not good is— "American Tug 4, where the heck are you going?"

"Uh, Yankee to Hotel Yankee for the apron, Tug 4?"

"That's fascinating, because you just passed Hotel Yankee and now there are four airplanes who are stuck because of you. I don't suppose you can apparate?"

"Five airplanes," comes another voice. "He just cut me off at Hotel Yankee instead of giving way, and now I need someone to come out and check my brakes, JetBlue 1214."

"Oh, for the love of... Hold tight, JetBlue 1214. I'll send help out to you."

"Holding tight."

Once that mess is dealt with, Mitch manages to get another eight planes into line for departure, American 2583 out of the way, JetBlue 1214 a tug, and maybe a half dozen more planes into their gates, but then there's another snarl.

What the hell is happening over at-- "United 8143, you're moving without notifying me. Did your gate open up?"

Silence.

"United 8143?"

No answer.

"Earth to United 8143!"

Still nothing. Mitch huffs out a frustrated breath off-mic, then says, "United 729?"

"United 729?" comes the gratifying response. Nice to know _someone's_ listening.

"Can you get ahold of your company and tell them that if 8143 is going to move, not move, levitate, disassemble into his component molecules, or any combination thereof on my taxiway, he needs to be talking to me?"

"Uh, yes, sorry, United 729."

" _You_ don't need to be sorry, you're fine. _He_ can be sorry."

"I'll pass that along, too."

Good. "Brickyard 3509, give way to New Zealand at Echo and follow it to Whiskey Golf."

"Give way to New Zealand at...where's New Zealand?"

Mitch rolls his eyes. "Southeast of Australia."

"Funny."

"I thought so. Exit at Zulu, follow the New Zealand you'll find at Echo for Whiskey Golf."

"Roger, on Zulu, following the _Air_ _New Zealand airplane_ at Echo for Whiskey Golf, Brickyard 3509."

"Ah, a smarty pants. We'll get along fine." Time to try his misbehaving set of pilots again. "United 8143?"

No answer. Mitch is pretty sure each and every vein in his forehead is throbbing at this point.

"United 8143?"

Nothing.

"United 729?"

A weary sigh comes over the comms. "I told company. I'll tell them again."

Mitch grits his teeth. "This time, tell them no one from that entire terminal can move until I hear from him, and if he gets to the apron before talking to me, he won't enjoy the report I write up about him."

"Wilco, United 729."

"Thank you." Why the fuck is there a blip on his ground radar but no corresponding flight identification? Mitch turns and looks out the window, squinting to make out the aircraft type and livery from this far away. "Okay, who's the little American Embraer I can see on Zulu?"

"American 3383 is on Zulu."

"Okay, American 3383, there's this thing called a transponder. You should consider using yours so I won't smush you under an Airbus if I fail to notice your shadow next time. I hate smushing planes, they dock my pay."

"Oh, sh— Yeah. Sorry, Ground."

American 3383 flares to life on Mitch's screen, joining the other eight million aircraft that don't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.

"United 8143, one last chance to respond."

No answer. Surely this clusterfuck of a shift has to smooth out at some point, right?

"United 8143?"

Apparently not.

***

Mitch gets to Scott's apartment an hour later than intended because of the report he stays to file. He hates writing up pilots, but he hates irresponsible jerks endangering everyone around them because they're too lazy to check on their silent radio moreso. He slams the door behind him, causing Scott to freeze mid-chew, chopsticks deep in the large container of what looks like pho that he must have had delivered after Mitch texted he wouldn't make their dinner reservation.

Mitch stalks across the living room, dumping his satchel on the coffee table and throwing himself onto the couch.

"Um," Scott says, finishing his mouthful and setting the soup down. "Do I need to be apologizing on behalf of my people?"

"It wouldn't hurt. But I'll settle for you putting in a good word for me with whatever god I pissed off next time you're in the sky?" Mitch rests his head on the back of the couch and throws an arm across his face.

"I don't think it works like that."

"Probably not. It was just a long, shitty day, with a statistically improbable number of long, shitty issues, and everything seemed to grow longer and everyone shittier as it all wore on." Mitch purses his lips. "I'll get over it. Nothing you can do to help.

He raises his head when Scott pulls another big styrofoam cup of pho out from a nearby plastic bag, presenting Mitch with a spoon, a pair of chopsticks, a bag of bean sprouts, and a package of sriracha. "How about dinner and a blow job?"

Oh, okay yeah. That _will_ help. "I stand corrected."

***

The recordings from his day from hell go as viral as ATC videos ever get, so at least his fans are amused.

**To be continued...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, most of Mitch's on-the-job dialogue is inspired by Kennedy Steve, a now-retired controller in NYC.


	4. Appreciate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ehcimocs for the beta!

“For fuck’s sake,” Scott groans a week later, flopping back on his bed and flinging his iPad into the sheets. “My London trip is going to be captained by Myer. Thousands of pilots in the airline that I’ll never work with even once in my entire career, and yet I’ve got him again.”

“Am I supposed to know who he is?” Mitch asks. He sits up, reaches for Scott’s iPad and, adorably in Scott’s opinion, pretends he can make sense of the lists, schedules, and notifications crowding the flight crew app. “London, you said?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, resignation settling in along with the reality of the situation. “Long enough in the air to feel like an eternity, but just short enough they haven’t scheduled a relief pilot to spread out some of the pain.” He slides his hands over his face, and then looks at Mitch. “Myer’s stationed out of DFW, too. You must have dealt with him at some point.”  
  
Mitch shrugs, his bare shoulder slipping out of the robe he’s haphazardly wearing. “Not by name.”

Scott’s distracted by the increased proportion of skin for a moment, but then rallies back to the conversation. Most of his bad memories of Myer come from being trapped on a flight deck with him for hours, but he’d been a prick over the radio, too— He snaps his fingers. “Remember that time an Aer Lingus blew a tire and you had to redirect half the airport? Myer was captaining my plane.”

“Oh, Douchey McDickface.” Mitch’s nose wrinkles. “I’m so sorry.” 

Scott bursts out laughing. “That’s what you call him?”

“Not just me,” Mitch assures him. “The whole team. And TRACON; I called him that to Matt once and he knew exactly who I was talking about. And Esther’s dating a guy who’s assigned to the Fort Worth Center, so now he’s called Douchey McDickface there, too.”

“Oh my God, that covers half of Texas.”

Mitch nods. “And Oklahoma, plus parts of Arkansas, New Mexico, and Louisiana.”

“Fuck, I support it. Can we spread it worldwide?”

“I mean, I’m sure Heathrow at least has their own name for him by now.” He shrugs again. “Theirs might be better. You should try to find out.”

“Yes. Yes, I should.” Scott eyes the edge of Mitch’s robe that’s slipped even farther off his shoulder, to the point that the robe is now gaping open at the front. “And you should come here.”

Mitch raises a delicately sculpted eyebrow, and then gamely tosses the iPad aside to crawl on top of Scott. 

Scott supports that, too. 

***

Scott never does find out if Heathrow has a nickname for Douchey McDickface, but his trip is made anyway when Myer hits the wrong button to start his passenger announcement.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Captain Gregory Myer. Welcome aboard American Airlines Flight 80 from Dallas to London. Expected flying time is eight hours and thirty four minutes today--”

This is the point at which Scott tries to tell Myer he’s made an error, but he’s waved silent with an irritated scowl and a curled lip. 

“And we should be touching down at London Heathrow at 12:26 PM local time. We’re now climbing through fifteen thousand feet on the way to thirty-five thousand, the seatbelt sign will turn off shortly. A little background about me--”

He’s got to be kidding. 

“—retired from the US Navy after 22 years—”

Oh God, he’s not kidding. 

There’s welcoming passengers, which is both good customer service and also acclimatizes them to your voice so they trust you in case of emergency, and then there’s…whatever the fuck this is. 

Scott sighs and turns back to his controls, ensuring the autopilot is on course, level, and climbing as they programmed it. He re-runs the entire climb out checklist in his head and double checks their routing against ATC’s last instructions. 

Everything’s fine, except Myer. Is. Still. Talking. 

If he was less of a dick, Scott might try harder to get him to stop making a fool of himself, but as it is, he’s kind of looking forward to how this is going to end. The multitude of beeps on the radio of other transmissions being blocked tell him it’s going to be great.

“—and 102 landings on carriers and high-risk runways, so you’re in great hands. My copilot is of course also competently trained.”

Wow, _competently trained._ Who does he think has been flying the fucking plane the entire time he’s been waxing poetic about himself?

“--If there’s anything the girls in the back can do to make your trip more comfortable, anything at all, please let them know--”

Scott’s sure ‘the girls in the back’ will be thrilled with this blatant invitation to condescension and sexual harassment. If Myer repeats this over the actual PA so ‘the girls’ can hear him, Scott’s going to have to spend half the money he makes on this trip buying the whole cabin crew dinner to ensure they don’t hate him as well.

“So, with that, sit back, relax, have a nap if you can, and welcome aboard!”

Myer flips the mic off with a smug look, and now’s the moment Scott’s been waiting for.

“Nice announcement, Captain Gregory!” comes an overly-bright voice on Departure’s frequency.

“Can I get some peanuts?” asks another. 

“Forget peanuts. I want wine. Can one of the _girls_ get me some?” asks a third. 

“If I’m flying this thing, am I still allowed to have a nap?”

“My sincerest congratulations to your _competently trained_ copilot.”

Myer flushes bright red and glares at Scott, like his inability to work the radio or listen to anyone else is somehow Scott’s fault. Scott cocks an eyebrow at him, turns his head to hide the smirk he can’t contain, and enjoys listening to the mocking of every other pilot in the air around them until Mitch’s deep-voiced friend working Departure -- Matt, Mitch calls him -- brings everything to a halt with a humorous, “Okay, kids, get back to flying the planes so I can do my job and Captain Greg can recite his whole CV for his passengers instead of us.”

Fuck, Scott hopes one of the YouTube channels finds this and posts it. Mitch will die laughing. 

***

“Move in with me?” Scott asks a month later, apropos of nothing.

Mitch shifts in his arms, still sweaty and sticky and looking as disheveled as Scott’s ever made him. His brown eyes search Scott’s. “This is fast, isn’t it?”

Scott shrugs and cuddles him closer. “Probably. But you’re mostly here anyway whenever I’m home. Not like more exposure will ruin the relationship when you’ll have the place to yourself half the time.”

Mitch purses his lips. “I’ll think about it.”

Scott can live with that. “Okay.”

*** 

Scott gets back from Shanghai two weeks later to find his apartment full of boxes, a pissed off cat hiding under his couch, and Mitch sound asleep in his bed.

He slides under the sheets beside him, exhausted and jet-lagged as usual after a trans-Pacific trip. Mitch rolls into his arms without even waking up.

Perfect. It’s perfect.

***

“Come fly with me,” Scott says, lying in bed with his roster pulled up on his iPad in one hand and Mitch’s printed out schedule in the other.

Mitch hums and rolls over onto his stomach, stacking his hands under his chin. “Not if it involves lazy eights or anything that requires the phrase ‘not technically aerobatics’.”

Scott puts on a big fake pout. “They won’t let me do those in a Dreamliner. It makes me sad.”

A Dreamliner? “What are we talking about?”

“I’m heading to Paris on Tuesday,” Scott says, peering at his iPad again. “Back on Friday. Then I’m off until the following Wednesday, when I’m flying to Tokyo and will be gone five days.” He looks up and his pout turns into a smile. “I know it’s too short-notice for Paris, but come with me to Tokyo? You’re off Wednesday and Thursday already that week, right? Can you get a few extra days?”

Mitch blinks. He can’t get three extra days off easily, but, um, wow. “I’ve never been to Japan.”

Scott’s smile widens. “I know. I want to see you experience it. You’re going to love it.”

Any other boyfriend Mitch has ever had would be motivated by sex, or loneliness, or boredom, and bringing Mitch along would be a way to entertain themselves one way or another. But Mitch can see in the way Scott’s watching him that he means exactly what he’s saying. He wants Mitch to experience something he’ll love, just because Scott knows he’ll love it. It’s within his power to do this, fly Mitch to Tokyo for a five-day visit, so for him, there’s literally no reason not to.

Mitch pushes up onto his elbows and pulls himself forward to kiss Scott thoroughly, then grabs the work schedule out of his hand. “Let me see what I can do.”

***

It’s difficult. Mitch doesn’t have enough seniority at DFW to force his way into the time off, but with the gentle application of cajoling, finessing, and outright bribing his colleagues, he manages to trade the shifts he needs. His week before and after are going to max out his allowable hours in a very unpleasant way, and he’ll still owe Vincint half a shift next month, but he can live with that. 

Matt grins at him when they meet for what the airport laughingly calls Vietnamese food on one of the rare times their breaks coincide. “So I hear you’re going on a romantic getaway to Japan with First Officer Sexy flying the plane himself, huh? What are you going to do there?”

First Officer Sexy. Mitch sometimes regrets how insular and gossipy the ATC community can be. Esther is a bad influence. “I’m not sure what we’re doing. Scott’s promised some great shows, beautiful scenery, and excellent food. He’s been there a bunch of times, so I’m letting him plan it.”

Matt raises an eyebrow and stabs at another bite of pork belly. “You haven’t tried to reorganize any of it?”

”Why would you ask that?”

The Eyebrow gets higher. “Have you met you?”

“Rude.” When The Eyebrow doesn’t go away, and Mitch sighs and admits, “He left ‘amazing sex’ off his list, so I’ve arranged for his suite to be upgraded. Giant bed. Fancy Japanese plumbing. The works.” Then Mitch grins, somewhat evilly. “I also have big plans to warm him up with a serious amount of phone sex while he’s in Paris.”

Matt drops his fork and waves his hands in front of him. “More than I needed to know.” Then his expression turns wistful. “I need to meet a sexy pilot I can seduce with my voice who will fly me all over the world.”

“Should have talked to Scott first. He thinks your voice is hot.”

“My voice _is_ hot.”

“That’s the spirit.” Mitch reaches over and pats Matt’s arm. “If anyone can do it, my money’s on you.”

“This is why we’re friends.” Matt smiles and picks up his fork again. “Bring me back something weird from Tokyo?”

“I can do that.”

***

Scott isn’t expecting Mitch’s Facetime his first evening in Paris, and he answers it while he and his crew are still in the van on the way to their hotel. He manages to hide the screen and lower the volume before he gives everyone around him a show, but only barely. 

Mitch looks… Mitch looks amazing. And naked. With accessories. Battery-powered accessories. Which are already on. And in. 

Scott doesn’t get a good look at everything; Mitch tilts the camera back up to his face way, way too soon. But the glimpse is enough. 

“Come play with me,” is what Mitch says, stroking his thumb along his bottom lip, pulling his mouth open just enough to give Scott _ideas_ , before continuing along his jaw and down the line of his throat.

Scott would like to think his response is suave and smooth, but the best approximation he has for what comes out of his mouth is “Fwahgh?”

Mitch laughs and changes his tone to a bright, “Hi babe! Is this a bad time?”

No. No, there’s never a bad time. There are inconvenient times, and this is one of them, but never a _bad_ time. Scott digs his earphones out of his bag and hastily connects them. No need for everyone to hear Mitch, even if he can’t do anything about them hearing _him_. “Can I… Can I call you back in...” He looks outside, trying to figure out where they are in relation to the hotel they’re supposed to be heading for. They’ve left the autoroute, and the streets are looking narrower and more familiar. “Twenty minutes? Thirty, tops?”

Mitch laughs again, throwing his head back and making Scott desperately want to bite his throat. His left hand disappears off the bottom of the screen, although its destination isn’t a mystery when his bicep starts flexing in a very distinctive rhythm. “I suppose. I’m not sure I’ll last that long, but I’ll give it a try.”

“Are you trying to kill me? Don’t—“ Jesus Christ, he’s surrounded by coworkers. Nosy, observant coworkers. He lifts his flight bag from the floor and places it across his lap. “Wait for me. Please?”

Mitch smirks at him. Blows him a kiss. “I’ll try,” he says again, breathing already getting heavier. “Don’t be long.” And then he hangs up. 

It’s all Scott can do not to whimper, although he manages to wave off the concerned looks of both his captain and the senior flight attendant with them. Judging by the snort of one of the others, he hasn’t fooled everybody, but he can live with that. 

***

Mitch waits, of course. And he’s rewarded with a really nice orgasm because Scott is especially creative when he’s been given time to stew over which dirty promises he’ll whisper in Mitch’s ear. It’s the perfect way to start his day.

The day ends perfectly too, because his phone chimes just before midnight as he’s getting home from his late shift. His pilot is sprawled out in his hotel bed, sleep-mussed and lethargic, displaying all his bare skin for Mitch to appreciate in the soft light of a cloudy Parisian morning. 

Forget waiting for Tokyo. They’ll have fun there too, but Mitch is jumping him the second he gets back to Dallas.

**To be continued...**


	5. Anticipate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always, to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) for looking this over for me.

The day before he's due to fly home, Scott has lunch in Chartres with an old buddy who now works for Lufthansa. They split a charcuterie plate and take turns mocking each other's current type rating like they didn't both start out hopping tourists around in Cessna Caravans. Scott's just rolled his eyes at a jab about the 787 having so many battery leaks it's been rebranded the 'Wet Dreamliner', returning the favor by labeling the A340 as a tin can attached to four hair dryers that only manages to take off because the curvature of the Earth makes the ground fall away, when his phone rings.

He sighs when he sees that it's American, and sure enough they're calling with a strongly worded request that he take over for a sick pilot and fly back late that afternoon rather than the following day. And so, after double checking that he's fulfilled his mandatory pre-flight rest time, he agrees to fly to LAX tonight and then deadhead to Dallas in the morning, rather than flying direct to Dallas tomorrow and arriving late afternoon.

He says his farewells to Tobias, and then, after a moment's thought, texts Mitch about the change of plans and his new flight numbers, so no one calls him naked in the middle of his crew briefing. Then he swings by his hotel to pick up his stuff, ensures his previous captain is aware he'll be getting a new FO, and reports to Charles de Gaulle.

His new captain is a fifty-something year old named Roger Moore, no relation, and they also have a relief pilot named Jeffrey Kwon, who's about Scott's age, although he has substantially fewer flight hours on the Dreamliner. The three of them go over the flight plan, recent FAA notices, and the forecasts along the route. There's a large weather mass covering much of Canada and extending down into the Midwest, so rather than the usual route that would take them straight over Greenland and diagonally across Canada, they'll be on a less direct track, flying farther to the south than normal. It'll make for a longer flight and a delayed arrival, but it'll be less risky and with less chance of puking passengers.

"I have one last question, Cap," Scott says as they're packing up their stuff. They have to meet up with the rest of their crew and head to the bus that will take them to the plane. "Can we change our callsign to double-oh-seven?"

Jeff snorts, but Captain Moore just sighs and says, "It's 6226, as you well know. And call me Roger, please and thank you."

Scott can't help himself. "Roger, Roger."

Roger rolls his eyes and claps Scott on the shoulder before leading them out the door. "Wow, kid. I've never heard that one before."

***

Scott's pleased to find that the purser, or lead flight attendant, is Nicole, a woman he's worked with before and had fun with. They chat for a while on their ride to the plane, catching up. Once they arrive, Nicole starts organizing her cabin crew, Roger heads out for the physical walkaround, checking the outside of the plane to ensure nothing's wrong, and Scott folds himself into the right hand seat to start the cockpit prep.

A few minutes later, he's monitoring Clearance on the radio, preparing to call in himself as soon as everything else is ready, while Jeff sits in the Captain's chair, double checking their fuel and speed calculations.

Someone on freq is displeased with an unexpected route change, it seems. Half of the resulting rant is in French, so Scott doesn't follow much of it, but enough is in Aviation English for him to piece together that the pilot is blaming ATC for the weather system over Canada. He sighs and mutters, "Way to shoot the messenger, Monsieur Douché de la Dickface," under his breath.

"Fuel estimate confirmed," Jeff says, noting it down and shaking his head. "ATC sure does have to deal with some pricks, don't they?"

Scott nods absently, bringing up the note app in his electronic flight bag. "Yeah, my boyfriend's a controller at DFW. Some of his stories are epic. It's strangely reassuring whenever other countries prove they have all the same assholes."

Scott keys his mic to request their own clearance, scrawling out the departure instructions, exceptions, and expectations he's given into his app with the tip of his finger, and then calling it back extra politely to try to balance out the poor controller's day. He starts his check to make sure the digital clearance from the plane's CPDLC communication system matches the verbal description he just received, when he notices Jeff staring at him.

"What?" Scott hasn't hidden who he is since he declined the free education and stifling policies of the Air Force Academy in the era of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, but sometimes he chooses poorly about who to be proactively open with in the cockpit. He'd read Jeff and Roger as open-minded, but it wouldn't be the first time he was wrong.

But apparently, that's not Jeff's concern. "Are you... are you Romeo?"

Oh, _great_. Scott focuses on his electronics, which sadly match perfectly and don't give him the excuse he needs to call ATC back and end this conversation before it starts.

His face must give him away despite his silence, because Jeff grins and says, "Oh my god, you _are_!" just as Roger enters the cockpit.

"He's what?"

Jeff gets out of the Captain's chair and lets Roger slide in, but he's still grinning. "He's Dallas Mitch's Romeo! Is Mitch as awesome in person as he seems?"

Well, at least Scott can answer that honestly. "Yes." He sets their transponder to squawk the number Clearance requested.

Jeff's still not willing to let it go. "This is amazing. I have so many questions."

Jesus.

"Can they wait until we're at cruise?" Roger asks. "Things to do. Planes to depart."

Yes, _thank you_. Although Scott would prefer they be dropped entirely rather than saved until he's trapped in the cockpit without even the illusion of being able to escape. At least right now he can fantasize about jumping out the window.

"Do you even know who we're talking about, Cap?" Jeff asks, because he apparently _cannot_ take a hint.

"That snarky little controller that left LAX for Dallas last year?" Roger responds as he digs his headset out of his bag. "I miss that kid."

Scott is totally calling Mitch 'that snarky little controller' next time they're bitching at each other.

"You ever meet him?" Jeff asks.

"No, but I'm based in LA so I talked to him quite a few times." Roger pauses, and then snorts. "I screwed up a clearance callback once on his watch and he politely and mercilessly eviscerated me on channel to the delight of everyone else around." His expression turns rueful. "Kind of a turn on, honestly, and I don't even swing that way." He turns and eyes Scott speculatively. "You able to handle him?"

Not in the slightest. "Pretty sure he handles me."

Roger laughs. "Makes sense. My wife always says pilots are as high maintenance as their planes."

Ha. Scott hopes he isn't, actually, but he won't be asking for Mitch's opinion on that anytime soon because he's afraid his answer would be different and probably memorable.

Time to change the subject. "We're cleared for the expected departure. The central Canadian forecast is still bad, so we're still on the alternate track to the south."

"Yeah. Okay, they just sent the load sheet. Let's do the pre-startup checklist, please. It's Charles de Gaulle, so we'll be taxiing for an eon. Might as well see if we can push back early."

Thank fuck. Scott brings up the checklist. "Okay, seatbelt sign on?"

"Seatbelt sign is on," Roger confirms, and the rest of their departure goes smoothly.

***

Once they've taken off and entered their North Atlantic track, Jeff takes the first rest period. The oceanic portion of the flight is uneventful, the only difference from normal being the closer eye they're keeping on the weather from the north and the longer track they're taking because of it. Roger is a quiet but pleasant man to talk to, with a subtle but mischievous sense of humor. He's retiring the following year, and his perspective on how the industry has changed over the last few decades is very interesting.

Roger takes the next break, heading up for a nap and leaving Scott as Pilot Flying with Jeff in the left seat. Jeff's a much more colorful character, very funny and with some great stories. Scott has seldom laughed so much during a flight, except maybe the few times he's flown with Kirstie.

A few hours later, just after they've crossed into US airspace, Roger comes back. "Everyone been taking care of my airplane? No dinged headlights? No one scratched the paint job?"

Scott rolls his eyes. "Everything's just as you left her, Dad."

"Uh huh. Is that dad as in dad, or dad as in _dad_?"

That makes Scott laugh. "I'm impressed you know there's a difference. Whichever you prefer. Both."

"That's flattering."

"Are you flirting with me, Cap?"

It's Roger's turn to laugh. "Even if keeping up with a young thing like you wouldn't be the end of me, I'm scared of your boyfriend."

"Not your wife?"

"Oh, Sandra is a big fan of Dallas Mitch. She'd make popcorn and give him pointers as he murdered me. Then she'd kill you."

Okay then. "And on that note, I'm going to go take a nap."

"Good choice."

The handover dance goes smoothly, Jeff yielding his seat to Roger, then taking over Scott's once Roger's been briefed on their actual situation. Scott tucks his headset into his flight bag and tucks the flight bag into the little storage bin behind the copilot seat, then he takes his leave.

After a quick stop in the lav, Scott slows down to check over business class. It's the middle of the night, at least as far as anyone who just left Europe is concerned, and so only one passenger is still awake. She's a Black woman in a sharp suit, probably about Scott's mom's age. She looks up and returns Scott's smile when she notices him, before focusing back on whatever's on her laptop screen.

Nicole seems to have just returned from her own rest period, and points to the front galley with a raised eyebrow, silently asking if Scott wants anything. He smiles and grabs a candy bar, but mostly he's just tired and so with a final wave to Nicole, he climbs up to the small second level above the business class cabin. He takes off his shoes as well as his jacket, tie, and shirt so they don't get wrinkled. Then he flakes out on the closest bunk, snugs the lap belt around his hips, and after eating his chocolate bar in three big bites, lets the comforting hum of engines and his plans for Mitch in Tokyo lull him to sleep.

***

He wakes up to howling wind and blaring alarms.


	6. Mayday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a pilot. Apart from the fact this incident has obviously been dramatized for the sake of storytelling, I’ve tried to make it as realistic as possible. However, see Statement 1.
> 
> Thank you to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) for betaing!

Scott’s ears pop as the plane shudders and yaws violently left. He slides into the divider between bunks, held to his own mattress only by the belt snugged around his waist. The air mists around him, a sudden swirl of fog that makes it hard to see, increasing his disorientation even as it’s all sucked down the staircase towards the front of the plane. 

A panel near the bunks pops open and oxygen masks tumble out. His training kicks in and so despite already being lightheaded, he sits up and pulls the strap of the closest one over his head, fitting the little yellow cup over his mouth and nose. 

Their altitude seems to stabilize, presumably as Roger regains control after whatever it was that made him lose it, although now it feels like they’re banking right. Could be a vestibular illusion though; Scott won’t be able to tell for sure until he gets down there. And he _needs_ to get down there. It feels like they need all the help they can get. 

He finds the portable oxygen bottle stored nearby and pulls the shoulder strap over his head before switching masks so he can move and breathe at the same time, then unbuckles his belt and jams his feet into his shoes, which have thankfully rolled back to where he left them. He crawls to the narrow staircase, bracing himself against both walls to get his feet in front of him so he can get down to the main deck. However, once he starts down, there’s another lurch and he slips, slamming the back of his head into the topmost riser and scraping what feels like his whole spine down the rest of them. His right ankle twists unnaturally as his foot slams into the bulkhead at the bottom, and the oxygen bottle landing on his stomach and knocking what little wind he has left out of him doesn’t help matters either.

The pain is intense and his hand comes away bloody when he checks his head, but he can’t deal with any of it right now. He wipes his hand on his white undershirt, frowning at the shake in it. 

Then there’s another hand in front of him, smaller than his own. He looks up into the fear-wide eyes of Nicole, peering at him from above her own portable mask.

He lets her help him up, both of them staggering into the wall as she does so. She looks him over briefly, squeezes his hand to either give him strength or find some for herself. He can’t tell which, and really, it doesn’t matter. Then her expression morphs from frightened to eerily calm before she turns away and heads for the closest passengers, starting the impossible task of assisting so many at once. 

Flight attendants are amazing when they need to be, literally the difference between life and death in so many situations. It’s chaos in the cabin, papers flying everywhere in the wind, masks dangling. Those passengers who’ve managed to get their masks on are helping others, many while crying or praying. Most of those who haven’t yet got their masks on are already unconscious. Scott wants to help them, but that’s Nicole and her team’s job, not his. His job is to fly the plane.

So he limps towards the flight deck, only to find that the door has partially caved in, crumpled forward, its seal broken. He enters his code anyway, praying Roger felt no reason to lock access entirely, and shoves at it as best he can. 

Thankfully, it gives way, but holy shit. Short of the cockpit being on fire, what he finds is literally his worst nightmare. 

The source of their depressurization is instantly clear; the left-most window is completely gone. 

As is the Captain. 

Scott’s first wild thought is that Roger’s stuck in the lav while his plane goes down because he failed to follow procedure and call up a flight attendant or wake Scott up to spell him. But Roger’s been professional as fuck about everything else, so there’s just no way. And then Scott notices the blood along the bottom edge of the window frame and the missing Captain-side head up display that’s been ripped out of the ceiling, like someone grabbed at it but it didn’t hold.

Fuck. Fuck, Roger got sucked outside when the window blew, and Jesus, the best Scott can hope for is that he died quickly.

Jeff is still in the right-hand seat. He’s got his mask on, but he’s slumped forward, unmoving, obviously unconscious or worse. Scott would love to figure out which it is and help him if it’s still possible, but he can’t spare time for that when his first priority has to be _flying the motherfucking_ _plane_. 

There’s less danger of being sucked out the window now that the cabin has fully depressurized, but that doesn’t make it psychologically easier to step closer to the gaping hole and the frigid 400-or-more knot wind screaming past it. He manages to make himself climb into the seat, but his fear only gets worse when he discovers that the main harness buckle is bent beyond recognition. He can’t strap in.

Alarms are still blaring, Scott knows, not that he can hear them. The autopilot is still on, but they’ve lost Engine 1, which partially explains the initial yaw and current bank of the plane. The autopilot seems to be attempting to compensate, but they’re still drifting left of course. 

The memory items for severe engine damage flick through Scott’s head. He stabilizes the control wheel, disengages automatic thrust, sets the damaged engine to idle and then cuts fuel to it to reduce the risk of fire -- after triple checking he’s doing so to the correct engine because, fuck, wouldn’t that be just what he needs? Then he steps on the right pedal, gently at first and then with more strength, gritting his teeth when his injured ankle screams at him. The plane shudders again, but the bank angle eases, so the rudder, at least, is still functioning. 

Next, Scott flips the auxiliary power unit on, increasing the odds he’ll have the electrical power he needs to maintain control of the plane’s systems, even with the reduced supply coming from the remaining engine. 

Okay, what next? God, there’s so much to do and he doesn’t have enough hands or brain space to do it all with the speed it needs to be done. He flashes back to one of the many lectures from flight school and his early airline training days on how task saturation and the resulting loss of situational awareness are a leading cause of fatal crashes, and then has to swallow the near-hysterical giggle that threatens to bubble up.

No need to sound like he was unstable when the cockpit voice recorder is inevitably reviewed, assuming it can pick him up at all.

Fuck, he’s freezing. It’s gotta be minus forty or worse in the cockpit and his hands are already growing clumsy with it. He needs to get down both for warmth and air. Roger’s mask is gone, presumably with Roger, just a length of tubing dangling from the port. Since Jeff is also wearing his, they must have realized something was wrong before the window blew. In any case, Scott’s stuck with the flimsy portable mask he’s already wearing rather than the far more sophisticated one designed for pilots. He can’t risk taking the time to dig out the one for the jumpseat behind him or swap his portable mask for Jeff’s and reattach it on this side, not without knowing that air would still flow over here. The port might be as damaged as the tubing, and then where would he be? Unconscious before he even knew he’d failed.

So, now that he’s ensured the damaged engine won’t ignite or explode, the next priority is an emergency descent. The plane is already slowly sinking, unable to stay at its optimum cruising altitude with only one engine’s worth of thrust. Scott needs to accelerate that dramatically.

But first, he checks the map, and is relieved to find they’re over southern Oklahoma rather than farther west. It’s far easier to reach breathable levels of air if he doesn’t have to worry about plowing the plane into the side of Mount Whitney as he goes.

Roger’s headset is of course also gone, and Scott’s own is in his flight bag tucked somewhere behind Jeff where he can’t reach it, so he does the only thing he can and grabs Jeff’s right off his head. The noise cancellation of even Bose Aviations isn’t enough to block the howling wind, but any reduction is better than nothing, if only for the future of his eardrums. 

Next. Next...Wow, he’s never trained to run the memory items for both pilots from multiple emergency procedures all by himself and from the wrong seat. Okay, start with what comes naturally first, the FO’s actions. It’s a checklist he’s run many times in simulations, and he barely thinks about it as he reaches across the central console to the panel above Jeff’s head and flips the cabin pressurization switch to manual and the outflow valve to closed. 

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t resolve the issue, what with the giant proximate cause of their depressurization next to his left shoulder, but maybe it’ll help a tiny bit. His fingers then move almost of their own accord to flip the switches ensuring passenger oxygen is flowing properly and the seatbelt sign is on. Hopefully, that’ll cut through the panic and at least a few extra people will buckle in. Too bad he can’t.

Finally, he sets the transponder to squawk the emergency code 7700, which will let ATC know shit’s hitting the fan if they haven’t already figured it out. For now, that’ll have to do as far as external communication goes. 

Switching to the captain’s memory items, which aren’t at all as well ingrained, Scott flips on the PA and announces “Emergency descent” three times to a cabin that probably can’t hear him, and then twists the autopilot altitude knob a few times, not really looking at it before pressing Level Change. He’ll get fussy about exactly what altitude he’s heading for later. While he’s at it, he changes his heading 45 degrees left — this time on purpose — to hopefully avoid loss of separation with anyone in the flight levels below them. 

His stomach lurches as the plane obeys his order to drop, altitude ticking down way faster than he’s ever seen before outside of a simulator. His next potential move is to increase speed to hasten his rate of descent, but since the plane’s structural integrity is questionable, he decides it’s safer to skip that part.

God, he’s terrified he’s forgetting something critical between skipping around the different memorized lists and the parties who are supposed to be responsible for them. They’re designed to be conducted systematically for a reason.

He scans everything again as best he can, eyes and the fingers of his free hand conducting a flow over his consoles. Fuck, there’s one. He forgot to turn on the rest of his exterior lights so other planes can better see him while he barrels uninvited through their space. He flips them on, cursing himself for forgetting to do so _before_ he changed levels and heading. Then he fine tunes the altitude setting, twisting it to read exactly ten thousand rather than the 11,300 his initial spin of the knob had settled it on. While he’s sorting that out, he fixes the rudder trim so it maintains the angle required to compensate for the asymmetric thrust without him having to keep pressure on the pedal, sighing with relief when he can relax his injured ankle. 

The fact that the autopilot didn’t already compensate for the engine is worrying. If he can’t trust it, then he truly is on his own.

Okay, and on that note, time to try to actually communicate with people he _can_ trust. As his stomach continues to protest their plummeting altitude -- Mitch might have a point about roller coasters, it turns out -- he contacts ATC. 

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. American 6226,” he yells, hoping he can be heard over the wind and his less-than-ideal mask. “Rapid depressurization due to loss of flight deck window. Conducting emergency descent from three four thousand to one zero, ten thousand, heading, uh…” He double checks the indicator, “One niner zero.”

He gets nothing in return, and he has no idea if it’s because they can’t hear him, or he can’t hear them, or both. 

“Mayday, mayday, mayday! American 6226 is currently descending through, uh--” he checks the altimeter, “--twenty five thousand for one zero, ten thousand. Heading 190. High wind noise in the cockpit, I can’t hear anything.”

Still nothing, although Scott’s pretty sure a full-on pop concert could be blasting in his ear right now and he’d still hear none of it regardless of whether it was from the earphones or his surroundings. Exhibit A, with their rate of descent, there's no way at least half the passengers aren’t screaming, but Scott can’t hear them at all.

To add to his problems, he’s starting to feel woozy, which he sincerely hopes is because his mask isn’t rated for pilots and not because of his head injury. If it’s hypoxia, even if he loses consciousness, now that he has the autopilot set to descend to ten thousand, he’ll wake up as it levels off. If it’s a concussion and he loses consciousness, they’re all dead. 

Fantastic that the main hypoxia symptoms he remembers are confusion, rapid heartbeat, and sweating, all of which he’s feeling, but all of which are also pretty damn natural to feel in his current situation. He takes a second to check if his fingernails are turning blue, but of course they are. It’s fucking freezing and he’s in a tank top, so that information doesn’t tell him anything either.

Thankfully, the tunneling of his vision starts to ease as they pass 12,000, and by ten thousand he still feels light-headed and nauseous, but more in control. The air is starting to feel warmer, too. Still below freezing, but less painfully so.

Now that they’ve reached a safer altitude, Scott slows the plane as much as he dares, deploying flaps to ensure he doesn’t stall. The wind flowing past the open window grows less intense as his airspeed decreases, hopefully enough to let him hear ATC.

He takes an extra second to move the flight map to a closer display so he can get a better idea of what’s closest. His heading during the descent has brought him farther south, to the point where he’s just about entering Texas. He breathes a sigh of relief, because at least he can land at an airport he not only knows, but knows well. He hasn’t landed at Tulsa, Lubbock, or Will Rogers since he left Envoy for American, and a 787 is a lot bigger than what he was flying back then. 

A final check of the cabin pressure -- safely within an adequate range now, thank fuck -- and he pulls the little yellow mask down, hopefully making himself more intelligible, although he leaves in just under his jaw so he’s still getting a bit of extra O2 and it’s close enough to put back on if his wooziness returns. “American 6226 is at ten thousand, heading 190. Requesting emergency diversion to Dallas Fort Worth. 

He thinks he hears something. Almost. A voice, maybe? He can’t quite tell.

“Say again for American 6226?”

There’s another hint of something coming through, but he can’t parse it.

“I still can’t read you. I’m heading for DFW, American 6226.”

Another murmur, still overwhelmed by the wind.

Scott’s just trying to figure out how he can spare a hand and the brain power to input his intentions into the CPDLC to try to get text-based communication happening, when he hears something clearer. A woman’s voice, with a strong accent and still almost drowned out by the wind, but she’s definitely producing words. “Affirm…Japanair 12 ascending twelve thous...us to hold?”

Scott hurriedly keys the radio. “I can hear Japanair!”

There’s a pause and something in the background Scott can’t make out, and then the same woman says, “Stand by, Center”. Another pause, shorter this time. “American 6226, Japanair 12 relay...Worth Center. Do you read?”

Oh, thank _fuck_. “Yes, American 6226 can read you, Japanair 12. Tell them I need to immediately divert to DFW. I’m missing a cockpit window, Engine 1 is out, there’s damage to some of my electronics, and I’m on my own.”

“Center, can you hear?” the woman asks. “Affirm, that is what we heard.” Another pause. “Stand by…26, Japanair relaying. Center will get you a runway…ilot’s discretion… five thousand.”

That sounds like good news, although not something he can risk being wrong about. “Uh, Japanair, I didn’t get all of that. Descend and maintain five thousand at pilot’s discretion for American 6226?”

“Confirm, 6226. Anywhere down to five thousand as you need, they will get you a runway, Japanair 12 for Center.”

“I need,” Scott immediately replies. “Descending to five thousand, American 6226.” Five thousand is good. Five thousand has an even nicer supply of oxygen and warmth than ten thousand. 

There’s another pause, and the Japanair says, “Confir…he...thousand now. Request to de...seven thousand for Japanair 12 and heading for following him. We can stay…hear you.” Yet another pause, and then, “Seven thousand, heading 190...nair 12, thank you.”

Scott puzzles over that, broken by wind and static and one-sidedness, but then he figures it out. She requested and received permission to follow him, 2000 feet above and thus out of the way should he lose control, but close enough to stay in contact. 

Scott loves her for it. He has his hands full trying to manage a steady descent, 

keep an eye on all his instruments at a time rather than half of them, confirm what is and isn’t working, and bring up the relevant quick handbook references on the plane’s systems when he needs each one in turn, all at the same time. There’s no way he’d be able to convey much by text with the CPDLC and still keep the plane flying, so he’s more than grateful for her assistance.

Another moment later and she says, “American 6226, Japanair 12, Center requests fuel remaining and souls on board when able.”

Well, that makes it more real, doesn’t it? He checks his fuel gauge. “Uh, about 46,000 pounds of fuel... standby on souls.” He does another quick flow across his instrumentation to make sure everything’s where it should be for his continuing descent, and then brings up the manifest. 282 passengers. Thirteen crew. “Souls on board is 295.” Wait, fuck. _Roger_. “Uh, correction, we lost a pilot with the window, so now 294.”

“Uun,” there’s a long pause, and Scott’s not sure if she’s listening to Center or trying to figure out what to say. Or maybe how to say it. Her English is good, far better than Scott’s Japanese, but she has the slower cadence of many international pilots who are far more comfortable in Aviation English than anything that goes substantially off script, as this conversation definitely has. 

While he’s waiting, now that he has a second to spare, he reaches across to try to find Jeff’s pulse. He has one, and it’s strong enough for Scott to feel with his numb fingers in the still-frigid air of the cockpit, but even Scott’s clumsy grope at his neck isn’t enough to make Jeff stir. 

Not good. 

“6226,” Japanair finally responds, voice less steady than it had been up until now. “Confirm... confirm you lost a pilot out the window?”

Scott would prefer not to believe that either. “Confirm, we lost a pilot out the window. My relief pilot is incapacitated. I’m on my own.” 

“Uun, okay. 46,000 pounds, 294 souls, one able pilot. Standby, Japanair 12 for Center.”

Yeah. “Standing by.”

  
  


**To be continued…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident described in this chapter is fictional. While inspiration was taken from several similar real life incidents -- including British Airways Flight 5390, Sichuan Airlines Flight 8633, Delta Flight 589, and Southwest Flight 1380, the last of which unfortunately included a fatality -- none of these incidents involved a Boeing 787 nor the incapacitation of the entire on-deck flight team. At the time of writing, there are no known issues with window safety on the Boeing 787, nor has any 787 been involved in a major incident.


	7. Fluctuate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) for the beta!

Mitch is only fifteen minutes into his third rotation of the night when Esther pulls him off Tower, and Vincint -- who Mitch could have sworn was supposed to be off shift by now -- slides into the seat beside his console and takes over. Mitch is confused, but lets Esther usher him away to a quiet corner.

"There's an inbound emergency," she says, looking anxious. "Fort Worth Center has it for now, but the plan is for it to attempt to land here."

Mitch knows it has to be a bad one for Esther to phrase it as 'attempt to land'. Most declared emergencies by commercial airliners end with an uneventful descent and a perfectly safe landing. And for those in more dire situations, controllers as a whole tend not to admit to the possibility of failure, even as they're calling for crash tenders, ambulances, and asking how much fuel is on board that might potentially ignite on impact.

But he's still confused. There's no reason to pull him off his station; he's trained for this and has performed well in previous emergency situations. "Okay, give me the details and I'll coordinate with Center, TRACON, and the ground crews so we can get them the runway they want, when they want it, and arrange whatever else they--"

"Mitch," Esther interrupts. "It's American 6226."

Good. An AA flight is easiest. Headquarters are on site, which means company-specific pilot instructors and maintenance specialists are always available if the flight crew need assist...6226. That's...no, that's not... Scott's not supposed to be here until tomorrow. He's heading for LA.

Mitch searches Esther's eyes. She's never looked more serious.

It's not that he thinks she'd ever joke about an emergency, let alone one that affects him so personally. But believing she would is somehow less painful than accepting she's not.

She's really not.

"What's wrong with his plane?" he finally manages to ask.

She shakes her head. "We don't have a lot of information yet. They can barely hear anything. There's another flight relaying for them, but they've apparently lost one of the cockpit windows and an engine. They depressurized, and..."

"And?"

She presses her lips together for a second, like she's subconsciously holding back the answer. She reaches for his hand and he lets her take it, but she's still not fucking saying anything.

" _And?_ " he demands.

She's holding his hand like it might break. "And they reported that a pilot was sucked out the window."

There's no air. The entire fucking control room has run out of air. "Who? Who went out the window?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't know."

Mitch stares at her for a long moment, unable to process what she's said. Then his eyes drift over to the consoles behind her, to his colleagues determinedly working, then out the windows to the planes on the apron, and further out to those on the taxiways and runways below. "I can't...I can't work like this. I can't focus. I'll kill someone."

"I know." She smiles, sadly. Squeezes his hand. "I'm going to let you sit to the side and listen, if that's what you want. But you won't be able to control or even comment. If you don't want to listen, we can let you rest in one of the offices and--"

"I want to listen." Mitch can't even imagine being kept out of the loop right now. The silence would kill him. "I'll listen."

Esther clearly knew he'd say that because she immediately sets him up in the corner station that no one ever uses, handing him a headset. "TRACON's going to have them soon, and I'll coordinate getting everything they need. Vincint can't legally stay on duty much longer, so I'll be taking over Tower myself. But I mean it, Mitch. You don't get to be on frequency. If Scott's okay, he can't afford the distraction."

Mitch nods, compliant, and she stares at him for a moment more before nodding back and turning away.

He puts on his headset and waits, thankful she left the rest of her train of thought unsaid. If Scott's okay, he can't afford the distraction. And if he's not, the surviving pilots can't afford it either.

***

By the time Japanair gets back to him, Scott's tried and mostly failed to speak to his cabin crew. They respond to the Call Flight Deck indicator, but once they're on the interphone, Scott can't hear much though it, can't even tell who he's speaking to, and he can't tell how much they can hear of him either. So he gets no details on what structural damage they can see back there, or how many injuries there are, or whether anyone in the back is a pilot who could help him out.

Scott does his best to convey that they should prepare the passengers for a hard landing, and then snorts to himself because for once, they'll have everyone's attention for any brace position demonstration they manage to give.

'Hard landing' is a hell of a euphemism for how badly this could go, although Scott will take it over 'uncontrolled descent into terrain' any day.

"American 6226," Japanair says, breaking his unamusing line of thought. "Center requests you contact Approach at 118.425. We will also, Japanair 12."

"18.425, American 6226." Scott changes frequency, waits a moment to make sure the channel is quiet so he's not blocked by another transmission, realizes the futility of that given he won't be able to hear most transmissions anyway, and says, "American 6226, emergency aircraft for Dallas Approach."

It's faint and still takes him a moment to figure out, but Scott hears a deep voice say, "American 6226, Approach. Radar contact. Can you hear me?"

Oh, thank _fuck_. "I can hear you Approach, American 6226."

"American 6226...etting you up for the ILS for 18 Right. If that won't...can get you anything you need."

Anything he needs? How about a conscious copilot, a new window, a repaired engine, some ibuprofen, a decent blast of heating, and the world's largest glass of wine?

Sarcasm aside, the familiar voice is good to hear. Scott really needs to get Mitch to introduce him to Matt at some point.

He considers his options while rechecking his primary flight display and then keys his mic. "Yeah, ILS for 18 Right is good for American 6226. I'll need help vectoring." He glances over to his nav screen to confirm he has the nearby waypoints up already, and he's landed 18 Right often enough he knows the major features by heart, but he won't have the capacity to be following complex procedures or programming much on the fly.

"Roger, American 6226, we'll lead you in." There's a pause, and then Approach says, "Japanair 12, thank you for your assistance. Turn right heading 240, ascend and maintain 8000. I'll put you into the published hold in a minute. How's your fuel?"

"Japanair 12, 240, 8000 for the hold. Enough fuel for one hour hold before we must divert."

"Roger."

Technically, now that Scott's reestablished contact with ATC, he shouldn't address another aircraft directly. However, since he's not sure he'll have the chance to say so afterwards: "Japanair 12, thanks for everything."

There's a brief pause before she says, "You are welcome. Buy us drinks in Dallas and it can be even."

He's absolutely willing to buy her and her copilots all the drinks they want in Dallas or anywhere else. He also appreciates her confidence that he'll be around to do so. "Wilco, Japanair."

"American 6226," Approach says, not long afterwards. "Turn left heading 176. Speed is your discretion."

"Left 176, speed my discretion, American 6226. Can I get a weather report? I can't split my focus to listen to ATIS."

"Standby."

Scott brings up the approach instructions for 18 Right while he waits, but the response is quick. Broken ceiling of clouds at 2200 feet and scattered all the way down to 1200. Rain imminent, at most an hour away. There's a crosswind from the east, which is also a factor, and it's gusting more than is ideal.

"Thanks," is what he says, because 'well, _shit_ ' isn't very productive. He can't do much about it. He doesn't dare rely on the plane, communications, or himself to stay functional long enough to get somewhere with better weather at this point. As for the crosswind, he could request 13 Right, which is better angled for wind from that direction. But given how fast he'll have to land with just one engine and his inability to use reverse thrust on rollout, 13R is way too short for comfort.

The weather complication does emphasize other things Scott needs to be sure of, though. Standard procedure means they're already on it, but he's now in command of this flight, and he needs to ensure everyone on it has the best chance of survival.

"Can you confirm you have all the trucks rolling?" he asks, glancing over at Jeff's still form. "My relief pilot is seriously injured and I haven't been able to establish much contact with the cabin, but the ride's been rough, so I'm sure we have a bunch of other injured people, myself included. Best case scenario, we'll need at least a few ambulances.

"We've got tenders and ambulances coming, they'll be there when you are. You can just stop on the runway and we'll send everything you need out to meet you. Okay?"

Okay. Just land the plane and everything else will be taken care of. Nothing he hasn't done thousands of times before. No problem.

Sure.

He must delay too long in responding, because the controller -- Matt -- asks, "Okay, Scott?"

Oh. Oh, Matt knows it's him. It's easy for Scott to recognize Matt; his voice is distinctive and he's right where he's expected to be. But there are 15,000 American Airlines pilots flying over 850 planes, and there's no reason for Matt to have looked up the manifest to determine this one is Scott's unless Mitch had let him know. Which probably means Mitch is in the tower.

It's silly, and really unfair because it would be better if Mitch doesn't know this is happening until after it's over, and most especially it would be better if he doesn't witness Scott possibly cartwheeling this plane down his runway first hand. But the thought that he's there warms him.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." He zooms the screen in on the approach plate for 18 Right, making sure he hasn't forgotten anything vital about it, and pulls up the approach checklist on another screen. "I'll be too busy during landing, can you tell Mitch..." ' _I love him_ ,' is what Scott wants to say, but it's such a depressing and trite cliche that he can't make himself do it. "Tell him I'm sorry we'll miss Japan?"

***

The next fifteen minutes after Esther gives him the news are the longest of Mitch's life. The Center frequency isn't coming through on his corner station. He tries, but he just gets static. So instead, he's listening to Approach, trying to suppress the worry that's eating him alive into the patter of routine traffic calls and responses.

"Emirates 221 Super, expect 17 Center, although that may change. Descend and maintain 8000," Matt says. He sounds more subdued than he did the day Scott flew them through DFW airspace in the Cessna. Mitch hasn't listened to him working enough to know if it's a normal tone for him, or if he's already gearing himself up for dealing with the incoming emergency. Or maybe someone's told him Scott's on board, and he's specifically worried about his friend's lover.

Mitch should have gone flying with Scott more often. He'd know more about Matt's vocal tells on freq if he had.

Or maybe he should have done so just because Scott would have loved it. Scott hadn't suggested it again, just said he'd be happy to take Mitch up whenever he wanted. Mitch hadn't wanted, and so when Scott went flying on his days off, sometimes with friends, sometimes on his own, Mitch had never again gone with him.

He should have gone with him.

"Setting up for 17 Center, 8000, Emirates 221 Super," comes the pilot's response, sounding unnaturally cheerful to Mitch's ears.

"United 1216, contact Tower at 127.5," Matt says.

"Switching to Tower, United 1216. See ya!"

If this was a normal night, Mitch would be on Tower and talking to United 1216 next. But it's not a normal night, and so instead it's Vincint putting in overtime so Mitch can sit here and stress over whether Scott is alive or dead.

He should be doing something. Anything. Surely there's something he can do?

But no, there's nothing. It's unsafe for him to work, they've already established that. He'd be hyper-focused on one flight and unable to see the big picture, a literally fatal flaw in an air traffic controller.

But without work, there's nothing he can do. Scott's alive or he isn't, and if he is, he'll land the plane or he won't. Matt will help. Vincint and Esther will help. But Mitch can't help.

He closes his eyes and lets Matt's voice wash over him, loses himself in the numbers and orders and routine of it all.

And then the routine breaks. "American 6226, emergency aircraft for Dallas Approach," says a voice that's familiar, and oh, so alive.

Mitch has never been so glad to hear someone in his life, and the grin just that simple contact gives him feels as bright as the tears he can no longer contain.

Esther takes one look at him, exhales with relief, and says, "Yeah, it's him," into her headset. Mitch isn't sure who she's talking to, the supervisor at TRACON, maybe? But it doesn't matter because Matt and Scott are still talking.

And oh, Mitch is used to talking to pilots with problems big and small. They're professional, as a whole, in almost any circumstance, and their words often belie the severity of the situation. He's used to judging how bad things are by the inflection of their voices, has learned to tell the difference between a small technical glitch and a catastrophic failure when all he has to work with is 'uh, Tower, we've got a situation."

Scott has always allowed more personality to stay in his radio voice than most do; it's what attracted Mitch's attention to him in the first place. But he's remarkably even-toned at "I'll need help vectoring". Professional, almost sounding devoid of feeling. To a layperson, it probably sounds like he's hoping to bypass his charts for the sake of convenience.

However, there's an edge to his voice that any decent controller should be able to translate into: '95% of my concentration is on keeping this fucker from falling out of the sky, please help the remaining 5% aim it at a runway'.

Thankfully, Matt is a more than decent controller.

Mitch isn't sure what the deal with the Japan Airlines flight is, or why Scott's thanking them, but he doesn't have time to ponder it because the weather report is worsening from what it had been when Mitch was on Tower, and then his heart is breaking a little when Scott flat-out asks for the crash trucks.

"...ride's been rough, so I'm sure we have a bunch of other injured people, myself included..."

Oh. Oh, he's hurt. Mitch's hands tighten into fists as he listens to Esther hurry along more ambulances in case 'best case' scenario turns into 'not best case'. He's trying not to think about 'worst case', where ambulances aren't needed at all.

"Let him know to just stop on the runway once he's down," Esther says into her mic, after switching from yet another call. "We'll send everyone out to him and evac or deboard from there."

Matt's voice is warmer now. He was already radiating competent reassurance, but now he seems to be going for human and personal. He gives Scott a heading, then reassures him the emergency vehicles will be rolling. "...we'll send everything you need out to meet you. Okay?" There's a long pause, and Matt's voice is even warmer when he prompts. "Okay, Scott?"

And Mitch is welling up again. Especially when the response is a quiet, "Yeah. Yeah, okay." It's subdued, but he sounds more like himself. More like Scott, Mitch's boyfriend, rather than Scott Hoying, Pilot in Command of American Airlines Flight 6226.

He sounds even more so with his quiet, "Tell him I'm sorry we'll miss Japan?"

Fuck, Mitch loves him.

There's another pause, and then Mitch can hear the smile in Matt's voice, forced as it has to be. "You can rebid for it later, once all the paperwork from this is done."

The _paperwork_. Nice euphemism for the full-out National Transportation Safety Board investigation and hearing this incident is going to trigger, even in that best case scenario. It makes Scott laugh though, high-pitched and a little bitter. " _Great_."

Mitch turns away from the screen he's only half watching to look out the windows of the tower. Scott's still too far away to be visible by eye, but Mitch can see the planes lined up along the taxiways, brightly lit against the deepening colors of the sky just after dusk. Some are still moving, a last few taking off, squeezed in before the incoming emergency. Several more are landing in sequence, priority given to those who are low on fuel or who have good angles for speedy approaches. Others have been sent into holding patterns well out of the way above, or diverted if a hold won't do for them. Many of the pilots sitting on the taxiways will have already been told that their delay is due to an emergency, and most of them will have their secondary radios tuned to Approach, listening in to what's happening, silently waiting.

The airport still looks active, and in a lot of ways it still is. But its skies are progressively clearing of traffic, even as more clouds roll in, and everyone who knows what's happening is collectively holding their breath.

"American 6226, descend and maintain 4000, proceed direct to ICKEL," Matt says, a moment later.

"4000, Direct ICKEL, American 6226," Scott's voice responds, and he's back to distant and clipped as his approach begins in earnest. "Remind me of the MSA?"

"American 6226, minimum safe altitude is two seven hundred. You can go down to two seven hundred if you need it."

"Copy, two seven hundred if I need it." Scott sounds calm and focused, and while Mitch can force himself to look calm, he can't seem to focus in the slightest.

He vaguely registers Esther taking over for Vincint at the Tower station, but the view outside takes most of his attention. The lights of the crash tenders and ambulances are flaring down the taxiways now, weaving and winding as they detour around the stopped planes in a gathering convoy all headed towards 18 Right.

It's beautiful in its efficiency, and the controller in Mitch admires the job Esther, Matt, Vincint, and the others are doing to make all of this happen. He knows how much work it is, and he knows how much work it'll be to restart everything once Scott's down, if all goes well.

"American 6226, confirm when you've intercepted the ILS."

"Standby... I have the ILS, American 6226."

"American 6226, proceed as published if able. Contact Tower, 134.9. Looking forward to meeting you soon."

Mitch smiles. He has no doubt Matt means that.

But Scott isn't taking the time for social niceties anymore. "34.9, thanks."

It's silent for a long moment, before Mitch realizes how stupid he's being and switches to Tower's frequency.

"...the emergency aircraft for 18 Right," Scott is saying.

"American 6226, DFW Tower, emergency acknowledged," Esther responds. "You have the localizer for 18 Right?"

"Affirm." There's a long pause, then, "Wind check?"

Esther checks her readings, winces, then says, "Wind is 120 at 25, gusts 34."

_Shit_. The crosswinds and gusts are getting worse. But if Scott has any concerns about them, he doesn't say anything. Although, now that Mitch thinks about it, the fact Scott asked for the wind again in between Matt's report and the one Esther will automatically give in just a moment means he _does_ have concerns.

"Fire 1, emergency aircraft is next to land," Esther says, presumably on Ground's frequency rather than Tower. "Two mile final."

Mitch can't hear Fire 1's response, so he turns to look out the window to the north. There it is. He can just make out the plane against the night sky. The central landing lights are shining, steady and bright, and as it gets closer, he can see the smaller red and green lights on its wingtips flashing to white with what feels like each of his heartbeats.

_Come on, Babe_ , he thinks. _You can do this._

"American 6226," Esther says, only seconds later, like she's reading Mitch's mind. "Wind now 110 at 21, gusts 34. 18 Right, cleared to land."

"Cleared to land 18 Right, American 6226," Scott reads back, and Mitch can hear the finality in his voice.

Others are still speaking. Mitch is surrounded by the quiet murmurs of controllers on other frequencies or phones, still arranging, answering, informing, and updating. But nothing really registers because the only voice he wants to hear is now silent. 


	8. Culminate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Apologies for the delay. It's been a hell of a month, and this last week has certainly been a hell of a week, and I hope you're all staying safe but kicking ass to change this dystopia we're living in.
> 
> Thank you to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) for betaing despite her own very difficult week and month.

“Twenty-five hundred,” the synthetic voice of the radio altimeter says. With their slowing airspeed, the wind past the window has lessened enough now for Scott to hear it, albeit just barely.

He’s running his checklists as best he can, speaking out loud mostly out of habit, although the thought of leaving proof on the cockpit voice recorder that he flew systematically has crossed his mind.

“Flaps 10,” he says, reaching across the central column to move the lever when his indicated air speed drops far enough. Regardless of how often he’s flown left seat in smaller planes, everything feels backwards from here in a 787 and it’s unnatural as hell to have to take his hand off the throttle in the middle of an approach when he’s Pilot Flying.

He glances through the windshield -- still nothing but clouds -- and then back down to check the primary flight display. Fuck, he’d give his whole salary to have the missing head-up display back up and running so he could do both at once. In any case, the flight display shows his wings are level. His slope is good. The blue side is up.

“Two thousand,” says the radio altimeter.

He reaches forward and pushes the gear lever. “Landing gear down.” 

He breaks out of the main ceiling of clouds right where Approach told him it would be, but there are still scattered grey puffs all around him, so he can’t yet make out the airport. The ILS is still looking good though, diamonds indicating he’s aimed where he should be on the flight display. The autopilot still seems to be doing well compensating for the single engine.

He changes frequency when Matt directs him to and states, “Tower, American 6226. I’m the emergency aircraft for 18 Right.”

He’s intentionally coming in faster than normal, faster than he’s ever thought about landing before. But still, it’s time to increase flaps if he doesn't want to stall, although this will likely be the last time. “Flaps 15.”

He spots the airport and his runway just as an unfamiliar female voice greets him. “American 6226, DFW Tower, emergency acknowledged. You have the localizer for 18 Right?”

“Affirm…” He does, however the runway is slightly to his right rather than straight ahead of him. He glances down at his heading, and finds that it’s changed from 176 to 170. Either the autopilot is going astray, which seems unlikely since the flight display still has the ILS well-centered, or... “Wind check?”

“Wind is 120, at 25,” comes the response. “Gusts 34.” 

Or there’s now significantly more crosswind and the autopilot is appropriately crabbing to compensate. Fucking  _ great _ .

No help for it though, because a moment later, Tower says, “American 6226, wind now 110 at 21, gusts 34, 18 Right, cleared to land.”

Here they go. “Cleared to land 18 Right, American 6226.”

He lets go of his mic and continues his preparations. “Autobrake, uh, going with three. Speed brake is armed. Approach checklist complete.” He glances up at the clouds, the main layer of which is now well above him, reflecting the city lights from below. It’s not raining yet — small mercies, he doesn’t need wet pavement when he’s already going to be landing fast and long — but the weather is definitely worsening.

He flips the switch for the mic to the PA system and hopes the cabin can hear him. “This is the pilot. Brace, brace, brace!” 

He rescans the go-around procedure for 18 Right, in case the wind decides to change again or something else goes wrong. He can feel the fatigue and the headache he’s been trying to ignore settling in behind his eyes at just the thought of going around, and glances at Jeff, who remains as still and lax as he’s been since the window blew. Scott will go around if he has to, if continuing would put the flight in even greater jeopardy, but the trade off for increased safety might be Jeff’s life; he’s waited far too long for help as it is. And that’s not even considering the possibility of other critically injured people in the back.

Scott needs to get this thing down on the first try if he can possibly manage it, yet somehow avoid letting that fact force a bad decision.

So. No pressure. 

“One thousand,” says the radio altimeter, and Scott disengages the autopilot, taking full control of the plane. He nudges the nose farther left, crabbing even more in an effort to keep the plane tracking toward the runway as he feels as well as sees the wind pick up on his instruments. On another day, Scott would adore landing in this weather. Crosswinds are challenging and fun, and he’s always relished being able to push both the plane and himself to the best possible performance.

It’s not fun today. 

“Five hundred,” the radio altimeter intones.

Scott can feel his awareness focus in, narrowing down until nothing exists but the plane he’s controlling, the runway below him, the air holding him up, and the angles required for all three to end well.

“Four hundred.”

The yoke feels strange in his left hand, as does the single throttle in his right. The pain of his injured ankle flares with every press of the right rudder pedal he makes to maintain his track, but Scott has no choice but to grit his teeth and ignore it. 

“Three hundred. Approaching minimums.”

The runway looks welcoming and bright. The PAPI lights are two and two. It’s still not raining. 

Maybe this is possible after all.

“Two hundred. Minimums. Minimums,” the radio altimeter prompts.

“Continuing,” Scott says out loud, like Jeff’s suddenly going to wake up and acknowledge his decision to land. 

“One hundred.”

The stripes of the runway threshold pass underneath him, along with the huge reflective ‘18 R’ centered between the bright edge lighting. 

The wind gusts, increasing the lift of Scott’s left wing, and he fights it, cranking the yoke and tapping the pedal so his ailerons and rudder compensate. It banks him into the wind, partially transitioning the crab into a sideslip that would have impressed his private instructor way back in the day, but have his first airline trainer kicking his ass because, ‘A jetliner is not a fucking Cessna,  _ Hoying’ _ . 

Whatever, it’s working.

“Fifty.”

He eases the bank angle back to parallel and aims his nose back into the wind, because as obnoxious as that first airline trainer was, he was right to point out that wing and engine strikes are very, very bad.

“Forty,” says the radio altimeter. “Thirty.”

The wind gusts again, but Scott has more of a handle on it this time, minute corrections keeping the plane level and angled where it needs to be. He’s intentionally aiming for the left half of the runway rather than the glowing center line. 

“Twenty.”

He pulls back on the throttle and yoke to start his flare. 

“Ten.”

At the last moment, Scott kicks the rudder. His ankle screams at him, but apart from yelling through his still-gritted teeth, he has to ride it out. The nose pulls around, swinging closer to parallel with the runway. The plane drifts right in the wind, and for the last second that he’s suspended above the ground, Scott holds his breath.

***

Scott’s plane comes in sideways, and even with as many landings as Mitch has seen over the years, he never quite gets used to how enough crosswind can make a five-hundred-thousand-pound pinnacle of modern engineering look like a toy dangling from a malevolent puppetmaster’s strings. 

With most of the airport still, it’s not just Mitch at the window now. Any of his coworkers who are on break or whose station is currently on hold are there, too. Watching and waiting.

“That’s it,” Vincint says under his breath, audible only because he’s right beside Mitch. “He’s got this.”

That’s not what Mitch is seeing. “He’s too fast.”

“He needs to be,” Vincint says, not taking his eyes off Scott’s plane. “The wind will push him around less if he’s fast. And if he has to abort the landing, he’ll need the extra speed to get back up with just one engine.”

It’s at this point that Mitch remembers Vincint is also a pilot, although not a commercial one. “What about-- oh God!” The plane tilts and for a second Mitch is sure that Scott’s lost control and the left wing is about to clip the ground and cartwheel. But then it stabilizes, sliding into the wind, and the bank eases a heartbeat later. 

“That was slick,” Vincint mutters. 

Slick? Scott did that on  _ purpose _ ?

The nose finally starts to turn parallel to the runway maybe 10 feet above the ground, and it’s only now that Mitch can see the missing window, and only because it’s not reflecting light like the others. Apart from that, from Mitch’s angle, the plane looks perfect, flaring and floating pristine above the runway.

The left gear touches first, and the plane rocks as its nose continues around before the right gear settles with far more impact than Mitch would consider ideal. Then the nose gear slams down — ‘makes firm contact’, a pilot would probably say -- a few seconds later, and finishes aligning with the runways as it rolls. 

Vincint must surely have been right about the benefits of landing fast, but Scott’s paying the price now as he swerves along the length of 18 Right, still buffeted by the wind, speed brakes and ailerons extended and tires smoking. 

The plane screams down the runway, past their vantage point above it. And now Mitch can see the damage to the number 1 engine, and the tires are still smoking, and the crash trucks have pulled out behind it, vainly trying to chase the plane down the runway like the wounded bird it is.

On 18 Right, assuming it’s dry, most airliners have finished their rollout and are taxiing by Whiskey Mike. Maybe Bravo if they’re an A380 or a 747, or something smaller that’s landing heavy. Dreamliners in particular are highly maneuverable, capable of taking off and landing in shorter distances than other aircraft of their size.

But Scott sails right past all of the normal exits, and Alpha too, and with the end of the runway fast approaching, Mitch’s hands once more clench into fists and his whole body tightens as if he can personally fight with controls he doesn’t even understand to make the plane stop faster.

The fact that Vincint grabs Mitch’s forearm with what feels more like his own attempt to brake than an offer of comfort isn’t making this better.

But while the collective breath-holding of a dozen or more controllers, supervisors, and technicians, not to mention any pilots with a view of the south end of the runway, is obviously not doing anything, it’s clear that whatever  _ Scott _ is doing is working.

The plane finally stops just before Whiskey Romeo, the taxiway generally used to get planes to the threshold of 36 Left, the opposite runway to 18 Right. The tires are still smoking, and the emergency vehicles are still racing to catch up, but after a brief moment of silence, the control room bursts into cheers and applause. Vincint picks Mitch up off his feet and spins him in a hug that would probably be painful in other circumstances, but he can’t bring himself to mind now. Over Vincint’s shoulder and through his newfound dizziness, Mitch catches Esther’s grin and thumbs up sign, even as she’s once more speaking into her headset.

Mitch grins back and lets himself rejoice for a brief moment. It’s not over. It’s not going to feel over until he can see and hold Scott for himself, and maybe not even then. But for now, they’re both back on the same ground and that’s enough.

**To be continued...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see crosswind landings and go-arounds in this video: <https://youtu.be/bMUdXJPUwm8>
> 
> 3:17 is a Dreamliner, or Boeing 787 like Scott is flying, while the Airbus 319 at 6:33 performs what looks like a small sideslip to successfully land after having to do a go-around due to an unstable approach at 1:19 earlier.


	9. Extricate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always, to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) for looking this over.

Scott brings the plane to a halt just after he crosses the wide painted stripes of the aiming point of 36 Left. His hands are trembling as he lets go of the controls, his ankle is killing him due to all the braking, and he‘s trying not to think about the fact that he’s only about 800 feet short of plowing into a field of grass. Score one for extra firm landings and the momentum they absorb.

Behind him, the cabin explodes into clapping and cheering; apparently the passengers are as surprised to be alive as he is and it’s good to finally be able to hear that so many of them are okay. 

He blows out a long breath and checks the nearby taxiway sign before thumbing his mic. “Uh, American 6226. Stopping here on 18 Right near Whiskey Romeo. I need a gear check ASAP.”

There’s cheering and clapping in the background of the Tower freq, too, when the woman replies, “I will buy you all the whiskey you want for that landing, Romeo. Shut down your engines. The trucks will soak down your gears as a precaution. Your tires were smoking quite a bit on your rollout.”

He bets they were. “Understood. Shutting down.” He runs through the shutdown checklist, setting the parking brake, cutting off the fuel. Turning off the seatbelt sign makes him snort, wondering how many passengers appreciate the ridiculousness of the understated little bing-bong that comes with it, given their circumstances, and by the time he sobers, his working engine has spun down and it’s now safe for the blaring emergency vehicles that are even now pulling up alongside him to approach. “Engines are shut down for American 6226,” he reports over the frequency. “Can you confirm there’s no fire or other need for an immediate evacuation?”

“Standby, 6226, foaming is underway…Ops reports no other signs of smoke or obvious hazards.”

Thank God for small favors. No telling how many extra injuries would come from having to evacuate with the slides. “We’ll wait for EMS and the stairs then. Thank you.”

His next order of business is pushing his seat back -- painfully with one leg -- so he can check on Jeff, who still has a pulse and is still breathing, loudly and obviously in his mask. Now that Scott’s up and leaning over him, he can see the bruised and bloody wound on the far side of his head, the obvious cause of his unconsciousness. He must have been bashed with something when the window depressurized, although Scott has no idea what it could have been.

Scott has first aid training, but he’s by no means a medic, so instead of trying anything himself, he keys his mic again. “American 6226. Status on medical teams? My relief pilot has a serious head wound and I no doubt have other injured passengers and crew.” 

“Two med teams are approaching with the stair car,” the controller in his ear says. She’s back to business, but he can still hear cheering behind her. “More are right behind them. Your pilot will be the first priority. If you can give us an idea of the number, type, and location of seriously injured you have, that would help with triage and evacuation.”

“Wilco, stand by.” He flips from radio to PA and says, “This is the pilot speaking. Emergency medical teams will be boarding shortly to assist. Please remain seated unless otherwise instructed by your flight attendants or emergency services. If you or someone around you has a serious injury, make sure the cabin crew is aware so help can get where it’s needed first. Thank you for your cooperation and assistance. Purser, call the flight deck.”

The interphone flashes immediately, and Scott sits back down as he answers it. Nicole is efficient and knows exactly what he needs to hear. There are dozens of injured, of course, but only four seem serious, three passengers and Maria, one of the flight attendants. Maria was apparently pinned under a serving cart when they depressurized and is currently being cared for in the back jump seats, while the seriously injured passengers are split between business class and economy. Additionally, there’s a man in premium economy who seems to have had a heart attack. 

Scott passes the pertinent seat numbers and other information along to Tower, and switches to the frequency she gives him to speak directly with the lead truck outside. He confirms the plane is safe to approach and answers all their questions, too. 

Once he’s informed the stair car is about to attach, Scott gets up to make sure the path to the flight deck is clear. He takes his headset off and gives Jeff’s shoulder a squeeze, just in case some part of him is aware of what’s happening. Then he turns and heads for the main cabin, leaning heavily on the back of his seat and then the wall and door frame when it becomes clear that his ankle will no longer support weight. 

It takes him a long moment to wrestle the damaged door back open, and then he stumbles on the step down to the main cabin level, catching himself on the bulkhead at the edge of business class. 

Ow. He swallows the curse that almost escapes him, gives the pain a moment to ebb, and then looks around the cabin. The normally exclusive seats are crowded with scared people, many of them hurt, and while Scott can see that his cabin crew are managing to instill some order and calm over the whole thing, it’s still chaotic.

The first passenger he makes eye contact with is the businesswoman he shared a smile with before he took his nap, oh, about a hundred years ago. However, her reaction isn’t the friendly smile he received earlier, or an unsure gaze, or even a judgmental glare for her shitty flight experience. She just looks startled by him, no trace of recognition on her face.

He supposes he looks a lot less like a pilot than he did before, what with only being in his undershirt, his tattoo sleeve on full display, his hair what must be every which way, all while leaning on a wall with his hands shaking. Definitely not that professional, trustworthy demeanor the airline puts so much effort into ensuring they all portray. 

The adrenaline must be starting to leave his system because he’s now registering all his exposed skin protesting the time it spent in the unprotected environment of 34,000 feet. His headache and bruised back are also re-establishing themselves, and honestly, now that he thinks about it, he can’t tell if his hands are really what’s shaking or if it’s his whole body. 

It doesn’t matter. The stairs have been attached outside the front Captain’s-side door, and one of the flight attendants is in the process of opening it. Scott needs to act like a pilot-in-command again, even if he doesn’t look or feel like one.

The first med team steps on board, toting red bags over their shoulders and a stretcher between them. They pause in the small foyer between the business cabin and the flight deck, obviously orienting themselves. 

Scott steps toward them, still leaning on the wall while gesturing forward with his other hand. “The injured pilot is up here.”

Apparently, he looks even less professional than he thought, because the only response he gets from the EMTs is, “Thank you, sir, please return to your seat. Someone will assist you soon,” as they brush past him. 

It’s fine, he thinks, bracing himself against the largest of the forward cargo holds as his energy really starts to fade. Jeff’s getting the help he needs, and other med teams are starting to board for everyone else. They don’t really notice him, off to the side as he is now, concentrating instead on getting to the most severely reported injuries and calming and assessing everyone else. 

It’s at that point Scott realizes that although he’s still in command, still has a role to play in expediting the rescue of his crew and passengers, there’s little left that he has the actual capacity to do. 

The reality of everything that’s happened really starts to sink in. He’s alive, which is more than he would have predicted twenty minutes ago, but Roger isn’t, and Jeff might not be much longer, and who knows whether others might die before the night is out. He should be checking on them. He should make sure everyone’s getting all the assistance they need. 

“Hey,” a woman’s voice says, and Scott turns to find the same business class passenger from before now standing in front of him. She looks concerned, brow furrowed, lips pursed. “You are the Captain, are you not?”

Her pronunciation of ‘Captain’ almost has an extra vowel in the middle, like she tried to drop a third syllable but didn’t quite manage it. It makes sense, Scott supposes, for her to have a French accent, given they started the day in Paris. But regardless, he’s not the Captain, so he shakes his head. Slowly, to avoid angering it. 

“No? But you’re one of the pilots,” she says, stepping closer. “I remember you. You should sit down.”

Should he? Maybe he should. He wants to, but there are things he has to do. Make sure Jeff’s getting the help he needs. Make sure the cabin crew is too. And the passengers. And he really should get back to the cockpit. Ground is probably trying to reach him by now. 

And Mitch. He should contact Mitch as soon as he can. Wait, they’re at DFW, aren’t they? Mitch  _ is  _ Ground. He should definitely talk to Mitch right now.

“Who is Mitch?” the woman asks, because apparently at least some of that was out loud. Somehow, without him noticing it happening, his arm is now around her shoulders, and he’s leaning on her as she guides him back into the business class cabin, which is the opposite direction to where he can talk to MItch. 

He’s already forgotten her question, but says, “Mine,” anyway, because some part of him seems to think it’s the right answer. 

“Okay,” she agrees. “Can you sit with me? Sit and I’ll find someone to help you.” She looks around and then says, “Madame?” in a louder voice, which hurts Scott’s head. “The pilot is injured.”

“Scott?” a more familiar voice asks. He doesn’t know who because wow, it’s getting dark in here, but it’s familiar. “Scott, are you okay?”

He’s beginning to suspect the answer to that is no. He blinks at her, catches a flash of lighter skin than his new friend, and redder hair, but he can’t get her face to resolve into anything but a blur. 

“Merde, he’s falling,” the woman under his arm exclaims. “I’m going to drop him, catch his other side!”

He  _ is _ falling, but he doesn’t feel himself hit the ground. 

That seems important, not hitting the ground.

***

The next sensation Scott feels is water sprinkling on his face. He grimaces, not enjoying the burn each drop traces down his skin, even though he’s fairly sure the water itself isn’t hot. 

“Sorry, sir,” a deep voice behind and above him says. “We’ll get you into a warm, dry ambulance soon.”

Scott opens his eyes to find that he’s outside and the rain that was threatening earlier has started. He stares up into the night sky as he registers the board underneath him, the straps holding him to it, the way he’s swaying back and forth as he’s carried down something angled—stairs maybe?— and the multitude of flashing lights in his peripheral vision. Red, blue, yellow, and white. Emergency equipment, he supposes. The crash tenders and ambulances and whatever else they called out for him. The entirety of it is hard to grasp and makes his head ache. 

The board he’s on tilts, and he’s confronted with the leading edge of a 787’s wing. It looks good, all things considered. He’s always loved the line of a Dreamliner’s wings. She’s such a pretty plane. 

However, while the wing itself looks okay, the cover of the nacelle underneath it has been shredded. And inside, he can see the safety spiral surrounded by fan blades, most of which are bent, broken, or completely disintegrated. He can only imagine what the compressors behind them must look like. 

Scott’s not an engineer or a technician, but he’s had to take plenty of classes on how the plane and all her systems operate, so he feels qualified enough to state, “That is one fucked up engine.”

There’s a snort from behind him. “Yes, sir. I’d say that’s a solid observation.”

Scott smiles, but then sobers. He can’t see any blood. He couldn’t let himself fully form the thought earlier, couldn’t afford to let the horror of it cloud him, but deep down he’d assumed there’d be blood. 

He can’t decide if the lack of it is good or bad. It’s not a fate he would wish on anyone, but he doesn’t know if the alternative is better or just more prolonged.

The thought slips away as Scott’s board tilts back to level, and he can’t see his plane at all anymore. He misses her, even if they had the world’s worst time together. She did everything he asked to the best of her ability, and he respects the hell out of her for it. She got him home.

There’s more lights in the direction they’re taking him, steady beams from the trucks surrounding the plane, and so many bright flashes that it’s almost like a strobe, and his head is still hurting and the rain is still stinging his face, and maybe it would be best if he just went to sleep again and dealt with everything else later. 

**To be continued...**


	10. Communicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always, to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) for looking this over before I inflict it on you.

Mitch hesitates in the doorway. He's been waiting what seems like forever to be able to see Scott, but now that he finally can, he's freaking out.

Esther sussed out which hospital Scott was being taken to, and Vincint gave him a ride. Since then, Mitch has had to make his way through all the security the hospital or the airline or whoever-the-fuck is in charge of these things put in place to protect the passengers and crew from intrusion. After repeatedly giving what feels like his entire life story and presenting, in no particular order and changing with each and every person who asks, his driver's license with his name and address, his work ID with his credentials, his instagram account with his couple-y pics, and -- God help him -- the fucking youtube channels that record his conversations for posterity, all to prove he really is Scott's boyfriend, he's finally allowed into a waiting room.

Then he had to wait some more, because Scott was still being assessed and treated. It seemed to take hours, and Mitch has been anxious and worried the entire time, even though a nurse came by every once in a while to tell him Scott was doing okay. Too much time stewing in his own thoughts has never boded well for Mitch, and this is no exception.

Which is why his current hesitance at the doorway is so ridiculous. He's been _waiting_ for this.

Scott's asleep, tucked securely under several blankets in the private room the hospital has granted him. It's dim in the room, but once Mitch's eyes adjust from the fluorescent overheads of the hallway, the light is more than adequate to see that the left side of Scott's face is red and swollen. The lump of his right foot under the blanket is substantially larger than his left, too.

"Told you I'd be home early," a gravelly voice says, jolting Mitch's awareness back to Scott's face, which is now turned towards him, eyes half open.

So. Not asleep then.

"Tomorrow," Mitch replies, entering the room and pulling a chair over towards the bed. "You told me you'd be home earlier _tomorrow_."

"What can I say? I couldn't wait to see you."

"You scared me." Mitch sits down and reaches for the closest hand-sized lump under the blanket, giving it a squeeze. "I thought I might...I wasn't sure..."

"I'm okay," Scott says, but Mitch doesn't miss the wince around his eyes.

He pulls his hand back. "Shit, did I hurt you?"

"My fingers are sore," Scott admits. "Frostnip. They'll be better in a few days, they tell me. There's some antibiotics and painkillers in my IV." He nods up towards the clear bag hanging above him that Mitch hadn't really noticed.

Ow. "And your face?"

"That made it to 'superficial frostbite', along with my arm," Scott says, lip quirking into a humorless smirk. "Not going to be looking my best the next few weeks."

"You look great." Mitch reaches out and, after a moment's hesitation, runs his fingers over Scott's not-swollen cheek, tracing the edge of his quirked lip with his thumb. "This okay?"

"Yeah."

Mitch wants to kiss him, but doesn't know if it would hurt. He wants to hug him, but knows that definitely _would_ hurt. He's so grateful to have Scott safely back, so very grateful, but he doesn't know what Scott needs. He doesn't even know what he himself needs and worst of all, he doesn't know how to ask without making Scott feel worse.

"You're staring," Scott says, after a too-long moment. "Is my face that bad?"

"No. No, I just--" _Didn't know if I'd see it again_. Finishing that sentence definitely won't help either of them, so instead, Mitch asks, "Are you hungry?"

Scott looks doubtful, although it's hard to say if it's about the food or the quality of the question. 

"Thirsty?" Mitch drops his hand from Scott's face to rest on his chest instead. "Cold?"

Scott shakes his head, eyes searching Mitch's own. "I'm good."

Mitch doubts that, but arguing over it isn't going to help. "Okay. That's...okay."

Scott soon falls asleep, which solves Mitch's ongoing struggle to figure out what to say. Sleep is good; he's obviously exhausted. It's also convenient for letting Mitch continue staring so he can maybe convince himself Scott is really safe and sound in front of him, without continuing to weird poor Scott out.

But it also means Mitch is once more left alone with his thoughts.

***

"Mitch, I'm fine," Scott says as they arrive home, shifting to balance on his good leg and a single crutch. He leans the other crutch on the wall by the door so he can start wrestling his jacket off one-handed. He's tired and stressed, and he just wants a few moments of normalcy and Mitch is hovering _._ _Again_. "I promise you I'm not going to keel over in the middle of the living room."

It's been a long couple of days. He spent the first night in the hospital being poked and prodded and regularly checked to make sure his ankle was properly set and his concussion wasn't anything worse than mild. He slept like shit, but it was the most peaceful time he's had since.

The next day, his room had functioned more like a secure office than a medical facility. The hospital walls and security kept the media at bay, thank fuck, but that didn't stop AA's management, or his union reps, or the crisis response team, or the NTSB investigators from getting in to see him. No one demanded much information at that point, constrained as they were by his care team and Mitch's glares, but it was coming.

In between these less-than-pleasant meetings, and the seemingly non-stop coverage on the news everytime he was unfortunate enough to be near a TV and to hear his own voice coming out of it -- fuck whoever originally clued the networks into the existence of LiveATC.net anyway -- he did get to talk to his friends. Kirstie had apparently been waiting for departure at DFW when Scott landed, but she hadn't known the emergency was him until she got to Buenos Aires. Tobias called from France, freaked out and sympathetic in turns. Scott got an email from Kevin to contact him when he felt up to company, and Mitch's friends Esther and Matt both stopped by, although Scott's pretty sure they were half there to meet and support him, and half checking up on Mitch himself.

His favorite of these connections was the light knock on his door early in the morning after his second night. When he looked up, it was to find two strangers, a woman and a man, both Asian, who quickly introduced themselves as Fuji Aiko and Otsuka Junichiro of Japanese Airlines. Captain Fuji -- Aiko, she'd insisted -- is, of course, the pilot who relayed for him when he couldn't hear the Center controller, while Junichiro flew their plane. Scott obviously wasn't able to take them out for the drinks he promised, but he appreciated getting to know them and thank them for their help a little more personally than over an open freq.

Once Scott was released from the hospital, he weathered the storm that was the media ambush waiting outside, followed by having to attend the first official debriefing of the incident. Four hours locked in a conference room with six NTSB investigators, trying to remember every little detail, decision, and deviation he made leading up to and over the course of the worst thirty minutes of his life, and Scott is _done_.

And it's not like it's over. There will be a million more questions, interviews, investigations, and meetings, not to mention the eventual hearing itself. With the exception of the flight recorders, Scott's the only one with any answers on what happened in the cockpit; Jeff has a traumatic brain injury, his future still uncertain, and Roger is dead, his body finally found that very morning.

On top of all that, Scott's sleep schedule, between the fatigue and the nightmares, is completely fucked, which is saying something because he's a long-haul pilot and his sleep schedule is _always_ fucked.

So Scott's exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally, and they're finally home and Mitch is hovering in a way Scott knows is supposed to be subtle but in reality is anything but, and—

Mitch's fluttering hands finally settle on Scott's shoulders, easing the jacket down his arms and off, whether he wants the help or not.

"Mitch," he says again. "I'm _fine_."

"I know. I just..." Mitch hesitates, clenching the jacket collar between his fingers before turning away to hang it up in the closet behind them. "I need to take care of you. I couldn't..." He turns back, and his eyes are wide and have the same odd look in them they've had since he got to Scott's hospital room. Like he's soaking up a view he's not sure is even real. "You were in trouble and I was right there but there was nothing I could do. I couldn't take care of you, I couldn't even do my job and take care of anyone else. I just..." He looks away and then says, even more quietly, "I need to take care of you. "

Oh.

All the irritation that's been building up inside Scott deflates in a whoosh. He kind of forgets that not everyone who's being affected by the trauma was actually on the damn plane.

"Okay," he says, just as quietly as Mitch. "Okay, um. Well, I'd like something to eat, and then I need to write Roger's wife back," -- Sandra's email was nothing but thoughtful and kind, which made it all the more heartbreaking, and he's really not looking forward to trying to compose an appropriately eloquent response -- "And then I'll need a sleeping pill and you in my arms to keep the nightmares away, if that's okay?"

That last bit perhaps comes out more bitterly than Scott means it to, but Mitch just nods and reaches up to kiss him, hands bunching in the front of his shirt, lips and tongue and teeth devouring him. It almost knocks him over, ill-balanced as he is, but then it ends as quickly as it begins and Scott finds himself bundled up on the couch what seems like only a second later, a blanket around his shoulders, his computer in his lap, and his bad leg propped up by pillows on the coffee table.

It's a little bewildering sometimes, Mitch's fierce efficiency, but as Scott struggles to find the right words for a grieving widow, his cursor blinking at him accusingly from its blank page, the horror of Roger's death and the moments that followed threatening to suffocate him, the sounds of Mitch puttering around in the kitchen making dinner are what keep him on the ground and whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuji Aiko is fictional, but named after Fuji Ari, the first female Pilot in Command for a Japanese passenger airline.
> 
> The NTSB is the National Transportation Safety Board, an independent government agency responsible for investigating civil transportation accidents in the USA. As Flight 6226 was an American plane flying in American airspace at the time of the incident, the NTSB is in charge of investigating the causes of the accident and making recommendations to agencies like the Federal Aviation Administration to prevent future incidents.


	11. Navigate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [Ehcimocs](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs) as per usual.

Three days after he gets home, while he’s sitting on the couch beside Mitch trying to pretend his world is back to normal, Scott gets a followup text from Kirstie.

>> I know this was your worst ever day, but something about it might amuse you: [ https://youtu.be/DFWaalDMcD ](https://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ)

Scott clicks on the link to find an ATC video titled “DFW Taxiway Chaos After AAL6226 Landing.” He shares a concerned glance with Mitch, and then presses play. There’s a title screen explaining the scene in clinical terms, and then the LiveATC recording starts with color-coded text. 

**_Ground:_ ** _In case anyone missed it, both 18 Right and 18 Left are closed. Avianca 441 Heavy, we’re going to turn you around. Your new departure will be 17 Right. Turn left onto 18 Left, then turn left again on Yankee. Hold short Foxtrot, we’re still figuring out the line order._

“Ben’s working it,” Mitch says, and Scott nods. He hasn’t met Ben, but Mitch has mentioned him a number of times as being highly competent at arranging even the worst chaos into order.

**_Avianca 441:_ ** _Okay, uh, left onto 18 Left and left Yankee, short Foxtrot, Avianca 441 Heavy.  
_ **_Medic 3:_ ** _Ground, Medic 3?  
_ **_Ground:_ ** _Medic 3?  
_ **_Medic 3:_ ** _Coming out of the ramp at Whiskey Mike, heading for 18 Right, Medic 3 plus two.  
_ **_Ground:_ ** _Medic 3 plus two, cross 18 Left and continue onto 18 Right.  
_ **_Medic 3:_ ** _Crossing 18 Left to enter 18 Right, Medic 3 plus two.  
_ **_Ground:_ ** _Alaska 717, you okay with departing 13 Right?  
_ **_Alaska 717:_ ** _Yeah, we need to in this wind, Alaska 717.  
_ **_Ground:_ ** _Alaska 717, continue on Zulu, cross 18 Left and 18 Right, left on Charlie. Slow to under 10 knots once you cross Whiskey Lima. Be prepared to stop and shut down if we lose containment of passengers on 18 Right._

_Shit_. Scott knows, intellectually, that all this rerouting is because of him. But even ambulances crossing runways in packs doesn’t make all of it sink in as much as the possibility that his passengers might have been wandering around lost outside his broken plane. 

**_Alaska 717:_ ** _Zulu crossing 18 Left and Right, left Charlie, slow below 10 and watch for pedestrians past Whiskey Lima, Alaska 717.  
_ **_Ground:_ ** _Correct. Okay, American 220 Heavy, you’re changing to 17 Right. Turn left on 18 Left, left on Yankee, pull up as close as you can to Avianca at Foxtrot.  
_ **_American 220:_ ** _How long are we going to have to wait in that line?_

Jesus, Scott knows that voice and attitude. 

Mitch does too, judging by his muttered, “Until hell freezes over, if it was me.”

Fucking Myer. Ground’s response is far more polite than it sounds like either of theirs would have been: 

**_Ground:_ ** _We’re getting everyone going as quickly as we can, American 220, but we’re limited by an emergency situation and bad weather. Give me your read-back, please.  
_ **_American 220:_ ** _Letting that plane block 18 Right instead of having it pull off onto a taxiway is inefficient, and closing down 18 Left as well is downright ridiculous._

Scott feels his mouth drop open, and the waves of ire suddenly rolling off of Mitch are palpable and probably visible from space.

**_???:_ ** _Have you ever considered not being a douchey mcdickface? Just for fun sometime?_

Oh God. The video creator obviously doesn’t know who said that, but Scott does. Kirstie just called Myer Douchey McDickface directly. On _freq_.

“Did you...did you tell her we call him that?” Mitch asks.

“I may have mentioned it,” is all Scott can say.

**_American 220:_ ** What did you just call me?  
 **_???:_ ** _There are injured people on that plane, douchey. That could have been you, me, or any of us. If you don’t like being called a mcdickface, don’t act like one.  
_ **_American 220:_ **Shut up, bitch!

“Holy shit!” Mitch says, over the noise of a whole lot of blocked transmissions as everyone on the frequency tries to respond at once. They don’t hear who wins, because Scott spins his phone in his hand and closes out of Youtube so he can dial Kirstie’s number. She picks up immediately and he puts her on speaker.

“Did you get a reprimand for that?” he asks, without any other greeting. If she did, Scott will fight to the grave to have it removed from her corporate record.

“Oh, hell yes,” Kirstie says, and Scott can practically see her examining her nails while she says it. “I clogged the frequency during an emergency, I deserved it. But now I’m fucking internet famous and Myer is suspended, so don’t you dare try to fight it for me because _It. Was. Worth. It._ ”

“You’re my favorite pilot,” Mitch announces, and Scott can’t even complain because he wholeheartedly agrees.

***

“I can’t sleep,” Scott groans several nights later, palms digging into his eyes, every line of him tight with frustration. “I can’t stop thinking.”

It’s late. They’re in bed and Mitch is tired, but this is the first time Scott has voluntarily said anything other than he’s fine, or hungry, or tired, and Mitch wants to encourage it. “What about? I mean, specifically?”

“Did I miss something? Should I have noticed something? Did I forget to do something?"

Mitch has no answers to any of that, so he says, “What do you need?”

“I don’t… I just want to not think about it for a while.” He pulls his hand back until his fingers are clenched in his own hair. It’s almost hesitant, the way he meets Mitch’s eyes. “Can you..?”

“Can I?”

“Take care of me?”

It takes Mitch a minute to get what Scott’s asking, why he looks both guilty and desperate. It’s a strangely vulnerable combination and for a long moment he just doesn’t under—oh. Oh, of course he can. 

Mitch leans down and kisses the corner of Scott’s mouth, lets his lips trail across Scott’s own as his hand trails down Scott’s body, tracing the edge of his ribs and the line of his abs and finally settling over the bulge of his cock, still mostly soft. That starts to change as Mitch squeezes him through his boxers.

Scott’s breath leaves him in a whoosh, warm against Mitch’s cheek, like he’d actually been worried Mitch would reject him. He lowers his arms, one looping behind Mitch’s back, the other reaching for Mitch’s hip. But that’s all he does. It’s like he’s afraid to take anything farther. Or maybe he’s still feeling guilty.

That won’t do.

“What do you want, baby?” Mitch prompts, still nibbling at Scott’s mouth. “My mouth? My ass? I’ll give you anything you need.”

Scott smooths the hand on Mitch’s hip lower until he’s tugging on his thigh, pulling Mitch across his body to fully blanket him. Scott’s hips flex, experimentally. “Just… just this? Nothing fancy. I just want to feel you against me.”

Mitch hums and rocks his hips too, feeling his cock slide against Scott’s. “Like that?”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

Mitch rocks a few more times, swallowing Scott’s resulting moan, and then pulls away to take off his underwear and help Scott do the same. He digs the lube out of the nightstand, slicking his own cock as well as Scott’s and then climbing back over him, nestling them back together and letting them slide over and past each other with every rock of their hips and press of their bodies.

Fuck, that’s better. Yesss.

Scott arches underneath him, head lolling on the pillow. His hands clamp down, one on Mitch’s shoulder and the other on his ass, pulling him tight against him. He drives his hips up and Mitch mirrors him, stretching to be able to kiss anything he can reach, trailing his lips and teeth along Scott’s neck. His jaw. His lips. 

It doesn’t take long. Scott’s exhausted, has been for days, so it’s not surprising that the slightest bit of pleasurable contact is enough for him. His hips grow faster, his grip harsher, and soon he’s whining high in the back of his throat as his orgasm overtakes him.

The line of his neck and the grit of his teeth as he trembles through it are enough for Mitch, and once he can feel the added wetness of Scott’s come sliding over his cock, it’s all over. His hips drive down and forward one last time and he’s coming, shaking and moaning and loving the heat and hardness and the filthiness of coming all over his lover’s cock. Dirtying him up and reclaiming what’s his. 

They lie like that, spent and breathing heavily, still clutching at one another, until the sexy aspects of being utterly filthy dissipate into just plain gross.

The grossness doesn’t stop Scott from protesting when Mitch pulls away, and he’s forced to lean back down and kiss the pout off his lips. “Shhh, I’m taking care of you, remember?”

“Uh huh.”

Scott’s passive as Mitch wipes them down, eyes growing progressively heavier as his post-sex hormones let the sleep that wouldn’t come earlier finally kick in. By the time Mitch settles back into bed beside him, he’s out cold. 

The peace is temporary, Mitch knows. Sex will never be a solution for anything serious all on its own, will never be able to cure mind or body of its ills. But a good sleep can help with most things, and the sex helped the sleep, and so Mitch kisses Scott’s jaw one more time and lets himself doze off beside him, feeling accomplished for managing even this small thing.

***

They’re at the kitchen table eating breakfast, Scott’s foot propped on a spare chair, eggs, toast, coffee, and orange juice in front of each of them, when Scott’s phone rings. 

Mitch watches with some amusement as Scott blearily puts his coffee down and frowns at the screen before answering with a neutral, “Hello?”

He starts to pay more attention at Scott’s wary “Yes, that’s me,” because if it’s another asshole reporter with more hustle than empathy, Mitch needs to know whose ass he’s going to kick.

It’s when Scott’s spine straightens and all remnants of sleep vanish from his widening eyes that Mitch really starts to worry. “I…you…really?” 

Then he’s silent for a couple of moments, just listening and blinking, and then it’s, “Uh, thank you, sir,” and “I mean, I had a working engine and an actual runway, so it’s not really the…” and “that’s… I really appreciate that, sir. Thank you.”

Meanwhile, Mitch butters his toast and pretends he’s not glued to every word trying to figure out what’s happening. 

Eventually, Scott hangs up and just stares at his phone like he can’t believe it’s an actual object that’s in his hand. 

Mitch lets him be for a moment, then prompts, “You okay?”

Those wide eyes turn on him. “Captain Chesley Sullenberger just called to congratulate me on a great landing.”

Chesley Sullen— “You mean?”

Scott nods. “Sully. _Sully_ called me to thank me for flying well.” He stares at Mitch for another moment and then says “ _Sully_ ” again, like Mitch doesn’t know who he means. 

“Holy shit.”

“Right?”

They’re silent for a moment, both trying to digest that, and then Mitch says, “So who’s going to play you in the movie?”

“Shut up, there’s not going to be a movie,” Scott laughs. Then he picks up his fork, idly poking at his now-cold eggs. “Think I’d rate Chris Pine?”

Mitch ponders that, then nods. “Maybe. Or one of the Hemsworths.” He purses his lips. “Maybe Tommy Dorfman could play me.”

“Oh, hell yes.” Scott gulps down his orange juice like it’s a shot of tequila. “Is a sex scene clause something we can ask for in the rights contract?”

The image of Tommy Dorfman in bed with Chris Pine flashes through Mitch’s head, and even though he knows it would get cut even if it was filmed, he still loses track of really everything else he was ever thinking. “ _Hot_.”

Scott laughs again. “I’ll take that as one vote yes.” Then, as quickly as his humor came, it’s gone. “I wonder who would play Roger.”

Mitch didn’t know Roger, so he has no answer. But if there ever is a movie, he’ll do everything he can to help Scott make sure it’s made with all the respect Captain Moore deserves.

***

**To be concluded...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on flight numbers: In previous chapters, with the exception of Scott’s completely fictional incident flight, callsign numbers were consistent with flights that regularly arrive or depart from DFW. However, since the suspension of almost all international passenger flights and many domestic ones in this, our illustrious experience of 2020, researching flight numbers has become far more difficult, and so they’ve mostly been made up in this chapter and the following.
> 
> If you clicked the link in the story, I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself. Sadly, I couldn't get Kirstie to do the necessary voice work to make an actual video possible. :) 
> 
> Captain Chesley Sullenberger, with the help of First Officer Jeff Skiles, successfully ditched an Airbus A320 in the Hudson River of NYC in 2009 with no loss of life. The movie Sully, starring Tom Hanks, is an accurate portrayal of the event itself, although the real NTSB hearings were nowhere near as dramatic or adversarial.
> 
> If it’s come out that either Chris Pine or Tommy Dorfman have done something horribly problematic since I posted this, my apologies and I give up.


	12. Aviate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks again to Ehcimocs, for her help and feedback.

Mitch goes back to work after a week, but it's a far longer process for Scott. First, there are his immediate injuries. He obviously can't fly with a broken ankle or a banged-up back.

Then there's the psychological fallout. It turns out that having your coworker die, immediately having to take his place, and then desperately trying not to fuck up the toughest challenge of your career while almost 300 lives hang in the balance isn't great for your mental health. Scott's whole world seems to tunnel in whenever he even thinks about getting in a 787 simulator, and his sleep is so bad he's relying on FAA-prohibited meds to stay sane. So he can't fly, and that's a hell of a mindfuck because he's never done anything _but_ fly.

Not that a cockpit is on offer right now anyway. The official investigation is just beginning and the FAA and the airline need some idea of what happened on that flight before Scott can return to duty, even if he gets his shit together.

And finally, there's the ongoing public interest. Scott's not thrilled with the idea of being the center of media attention, but the airline has a vested interest in spinning their pilot as a hero rather than their plane as a failure, and Scott has a vested interest in his bank balance staying above zero while the future of his career is, heh, up in the air. So, after some encouragement from the airline's PR department in the form of extra compensation for media appearances to replace his lost flight hours, he starts to accept some of the offers.

And there are a lot of offers. Everyone wants to talk to Scott. NBC DFW, Good Morning America, Trevor Noah, Seth Meyers, Graham Norton. A bunch of international networks, some Scott's heard of and more he hasn't, including a series of Japanese network video-interviews, where thankfully Aiko does most of the talking. It's bewildering and scary and, if he doesn't think about it too much, just the tiniest bit awesome.

He does put his foot down about appearing on Fox & Friends, although he allows AA to rewrite his refusal so it doesn't start and end with the words 'go fuck yourselves'.

Some of the interviews go well, with intelligent questions and thoughtful interviewers who've done at least minimal amounts of research on the accident, aviation, and/or Scott himself. But even with the good ones, he still has to answer the same questions again and again, describe the same events over and over, and feel the same emotions, whether he wants to or not. His therapist keeps an eye on him, helps him work through his emotions after each show to the point where it almost becomes desensitization therapy. It's a weird process, yet helpful overall. At least, he thinks it is.

But some interviews are trainwrecks from the start. This current guy is particularly vapid, having looked at Scott exactly once in the six on-air minutes the interview has already taken, spending the rest of his time smirking into a camera like he's sharing an inside joke, or finding the prettiest woman in the audience and doing the same to her.

Scott's not sure what American was thinking when they requested he appear on this show, but it's a struggle to get through it without becoming shady as fuck, something the airline has also expressed its preference for him _not_ doing as much as possible.

"If you'd started out in the cockpit that fateful evening--" The Talking Head, er, host says, and if one more person calls it 'that fateful evening', Scott may scream, "--would things have turned out better?"

"Not for me," Scott says dryly, and the audience laughs, which is what he intended but is also not a joke. "Look, Captain Moore and relief First Officer Kwon appear to have done everything right. They donned their oxygen masks, they initiated contact with ATC--" Scott's voice catches like it always does when he thinks about Roger and Jeff getting hurt just doing their fucking jobs. He clears his throat and reaches for the water in front of him.

He hasn't had access to the cockpit voice recorder, but the ATC transmissions are all over the internet. Roger's brief transmission included a pan-pan and a request to land at Tulsa before he was cut off. Center repeatedly tried to re-establish contact, but there was no response until Scott's mayday seven _very_ long minutes later.

Scott takes a deep breath. "I doubt anything they did was different from what I would have done in the same circumstance. If I'd been in the cockpit, I'd have been in the right hand seat, and I'd likely have been knocked just as unconscious as Jeff Kwon was."

Talking Head winks at the audience. "Well, everyone on board is certainly very lucky you weren't."

Not Jeff, Scott thinks as the audience titters. Jeff, currently in rehab undergoing physical, occupational, speech, and no doubt other therapies Scott's never even heard of, might really prefer for Scott to have been in his place.

What he says is, "I don't know what would have happened if one of the others was on their rest break instead of me. They were both highly trained, competent pilots. There's a very good chance either of them would have landed the plane just as well as I did. Maybe better."

The interviewer nods like he's having a moment of actual empathy, but it turns out he's just winding up to say, "But neither would have looked as good being on TV afterwards!"

Some of the audience laughs again, like Roger's death Jeff's TBI, and Scott's PTSD are harsh but worthwhile sacrifices aimed at the ultimate prize of appearing on daytime television.

"You clearly never met either of them," Scott says, barely keeping himself from snarling. He takes a deep breath to calm his temper, and leans forward. "Look, many of the passengers more directly owe their lives to the actions of the flight attendants than to me. I landed the plane, yes, but they performed first aid, they kept people from panicking, they ensured masks were used properly and blankets were distributed. They taught everyone how to best position themselves to reduce the risk of injury during a hard landing. They did all of that, at the expense of their own safety, without knowing what was going to happen or whether any of it would matter. They were amazing and I'm the only one anyone ever wants to talk to."

Scott tried, in the beginning, to have at least Nicole invited along to these things. She'd come to one, performed amazingly, and then patted him on the head and left him to it, promptly returning to the air and her actual job instead.

Scott finds that last part amazing, too. He's proud of her for overcoming her fears so quickly, and just the slightest bit bitter that she's managed it.

"True, true," Talking Head says, like he's heard a word Scott said, and Scott mentally revises his bitterness from 'just the slightest bit' to 'profoundly'. "Wonderful people. So, are you married?"

What does that have to do with anything? "No."

"Have a girlfriend? One of those flight attendants?"

Jesus, _fuck._ "No. I--"

Talking Head turns and smiles vacuously at the main camera. "Hear that, ladies? He's single!"

 _Great._ "No, actually. I'm not."

Talking Head blinks and finally looks at Scott, rather than at one of the cameras or the beautiful woman in the second row who couldn't be less interested in him, with an expression like Scott's presented him with a sphinx's riddle and not, you know, a fucking obvious oversight.

"Give it a minute," Scott advises, sitting back in his suddenly more comfortable chair and crossing one leg over the other, secure in the knowledge that he's finally lost his last fuck, airline be damned. "It'll come to you."

The woman in the second row laughs loudly, grinning at Scott, and that alone, as well as Mitch's inevitable reaction, is completely worth the stern talking to his PR handler is going to give him after the show.

***

Mitch is pulled from a deep sleep when Scott jolts awake beside him. He reaches for him, pulling him into his arms as he gasps and shudders. He can feel Scott's heart racing under his fingers when he settles a hand on his chest.

He gives Scott a few moments to calm, pressing kisses into his shoulder and just holding him. Eventually, Scott's heart rate starts to slow and he turns into Mitch's arms, exhaling a long, deliberate breath.

"Bad one?" Mitch asks, like they all aren't. He brings his hand up to cup the back of Scott's head.

Scott swallows thickly. "I couldn't get the door open." He buries his face in Mitch's neck. "I finally managed, but the plane had gone into a spiral and I had just enough time to see individual houses out the windshield before we hit."

Jesus. Mitch isn't sure which of Scott's dreams are worst. If the various what-if deaths of the whole flight plus bystanders below are more or less traumatic than the ones where he's in Roger's place for any of the possible permutations of his terrifyingly real last few moments.

Not that it matters which is worst, not when they're all fucking awful. "You're seeing your therapist again tomorrow?"

"Yeah." Scott's arms tighten around him. "She keeps telling me the dreams are normal. That anyone would have them."

Mitch nods and clasps Scott tighter in return. "I know. I know they are and I know they would." He smooths his fingers through Scott's hair. "Doesn't mean I don't wish you could skip this part."

Scott huffs and lifts his head. "You and me both." He sobers, not that his amusement was real to start with. "Sorry I woke you again."

Mitch kisses his forehead. "Shut up and go back to sleep."

"I really don't want to."

"I know that, too."

***

The NTSB eventually holds their hearing on the accident, and while it's emotionally grueling as well as heartbreaking, a lot of Scott's stress seems to flow out of him alongside his testimony.

Some of that is finally hearing the cockpit voice recorder tape, as well as the official ATC recordings, and realizing that Roger and Jeff did indeed handle everything perfectly, they just had no time. The recordings also confirm that there wasn't much Scott could have, or at least should have, done differently either.

Some of it is that Jeff is well enough to attend in person, although he has no memory of the flight and thus isn't called to testify. Many of the flight attendants do testify, as do a number of passengers, and while Scott's already heard a lot of their stories on what went on in the cabin behind him, hearing it all laid out is profound and humbling.

Jeff meeting Mitch is a laugh and a half to watch. He might not remember meeting Scott the first time, but he sure does remember being a fan of Dallas Mitch. And while far more subdued, Sandra meeting Mitch and giving him all the attitude pointers Roger predicted is also beautiful and terrifying to behold.

They're all bound together now, passengers and crew, for the rest of their lives, and this first real meeting brings that home in a way even the online support group most of them have joined couldn't manage.

Scott's thrilled to meet Brigitte, his actual hero who kept him from face-planting in the middle of business class. Thanking her is a hell of a lot easier than accepting her thanks, though, or that of everyone else. 

After the hearing, the report's conclusion is that the installation of a faulty replacement window six months prior to the incident flight was the cause of the decompression, leading to Engine 1's subsequent failure as a result of the intake of that detached window. 

Scott's really hoping the official confirmation that nothing else went through the engine will be the end of an entire subgenre of his nightmares.

The report also suggests that until the initial crack occurred, there were no signs of trouble that could have been detected by sight or through the plane's internal systems, and thus nothing that could have been detected beforehand by the flight crew. Knowing that brings closure and absolution for all of them, Scott, Jeff, and Sandra alike, and the very air around Scott feels lighter.

Things quickly get better for him after that.

***

 **Tower:** American 48 Heavy, RNAV to HASKL, 36 Right, cleared for takeoff.  
**American 48:** RNAV to HASKL, cleared for takeoff 36 Right, American 48 Heavy. See you in a few days, babe.  
**Tower:** Don't you dare come home early this time.  
**American 48:** No promises!

***

"Marry me," Scott says, apropos of nothing, about a year and a half after Flight 6226 and a six months after he returns to commercial flying. They're in Kyoto, in a machiya-style hotel that's as beautiful as it is expensive, just a few minutes' walk from the imperial palace. Mitch has had an amazing day of sightseeing, sushi, sake, and sex, and they have two more of them to enjoy before they take the train back to Tokyo, where they'll stay another two nights before Scott has report back to work for their flight home. 

Mitch was happily nestled into his pillow, enjoying the way Scott's lips were trailing down his spine before he spoke. To be fair, his lips are still trailing, and Mitch is still enjoying, but he's now far more awake than he'd just been.

He cracks open an eye. "Is that the orgasm talking, or should I be taking the question seriously?"

Scott snorts and sits up, palms warm on Mitch's back. "I mean, I can't swear the orgasm has nothing to do with the timing, but I've been thinking about this for a while."

"You have?" Mitch rolls over, still lethargic, even with the subject matter, due to the cloud-like bed and his own set of lingering neurochemicals. Scott's hands slide over his skin as he turns, resting lightly on his stomach once he's settled.

Scott tilts his head, eyebrows raised. "Of course I have."

Mitch hasn't. He's always lived more in the moment, holding course if he's happy, making changes when he's not. It's part of why controlling suits him. There's a certain amount of planning in the world of ATC, obviously, but where soon is the next 30 seconds, and the future is five minutes away, most of Mitch's decisions are reactive, and he lives by a creed where if nothing is going wrong, don't change anything.

But looking at Scott kneeling over him on the bed, naked, earnest, and hopeful, with his hair a mess and his stubble just starting to grow in, Mitch can't imagine ever wanting to make another change. He's imagined living without him once, in those long moments between Esther pulling him off his station and Scott's radio contact with TRACON, and he never wants to do it again. He can't control their fates or their fortunes, but he can control this.

So he smiles, grins really, and props himself up on his elbows. "Yes."

"Yes?" Scott's smile is slower, more hesitant. His eyes flick back and forth between Mitch's. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

And then Scott's kissing him, one hand on his jaw and the other clutching his side. It's deep and clumsy, and it leaves him gasping for air because Scott somehow seems to forget they need to breathe. But it's wonderful, and when Scott finally pulls away, his grin is as big and bright as Mitch has ever seen it.

Well, maybe not as bright as he's _ever_ seen. There's one other scenario that comes close.

Mitch hesitates, just for a moment, in between Scott's kisses and cuddling, but it's too perfect. "Come fly with me?"

Scott pulls back, confused. "What?"

"Kyoto has to be gorgeous from a Cessna or whatever buzzes around the skies here, right? Take me flying."

Scott's grin gets momentarily wider, but then he shakes his head. "I don't know the area or the airports and I'm pretty sure I need a Japanese license to fly privately." There's something strange in his expression, something Mitch can't quite place. He shrugs in a way that's clearly designed to look nonchalant. "Even if I don't, my Japanese is shit. It wouldn't be safe to only understand half of what's being said on freq."

What the fuck? "Aiko told you she'd take you up if you ever wanted to fly in Japan, didn't she? Call her and see if she's free. I'm surprised you haven't already."

Japanese media had been all over American Flight 6226; Aiko's part in relaying for Scott becoming a point of national pride, making them both more-than-minor celebrities. Thus, Scott's landing is more revered here than it is at home, and, as a not-exactly-inconspicuous 6'3 blond man in Japan, he's been recognized several times just wandering around the streets.

He's getting quite good at looking gracious and handsome in peace-sign-filled selfies with strangers, in Mitch's admittedly biased opinion.

Scott sighs, bringing Mitch's focus back to the conversation rather than his jawline. "I don't want to spend part of our first real trip together doing something you hate, Mitch."

Oh. _Oh._ "I want to. I want to come flying with you."

"You do? Really?"

And yeah, maybe he's overselling his eagerness to experience the actual flying part, but he definitely wants to experience Scott experiencing flying, so, "Really."

There's another moment of hesitation before Mitch is getting kissed again, and then again, and then they might lose some time having their first fuck as fiancés, which yes hello, Mitch is all for. But afterwards, Scott's on the phone and Mitch loses a whole day of sex and sake to flying, although he supposes it counts as double the sightseeing.

They meet Aiko at Yao Airport near Osaka, and while it's small in relation to an international airport, it's big enough to have a tower and paved runways, which is a hell of a relief to Mitch.

Aiko introduces Scott to the dozen-or-so private and military pilots who are present, and then steps back to watch him flounder through the resulting hero worship using only the vocabulary of Aviation English and his accurately-labeled-as-shit Japanese.

Mitch laughs and kind of loves her for it, until she loudly calls him by name and the group suddenly works out that he's _Dallas_ Mitch, and then he's also getting a slew of questions, and his Japanese isn't so much shit as nonexistent, and he finds himself on a spur of the moment tour of the control tower whether he wants it or not and it's Scott's turn to laugh his ass off.

But even with all that, when he's sitting in the backseat of a tiny Piper Malibu, flying over Osaka, Kobe, and Kyoto, watching Scott light up and gleefully — if not entirely legally, Mitch is pretty sure — take the stick whenever they're in lower class airspaces, with Aiko handling the radio but otherwise completely enabling him, Mitch wouldn't change a thing.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming along on this strange new interest of mine. Please enjoy an excessive amount of notes, for anyone intrigued enough to look further:
> 
> VASAviation and H89SA are real life ATC YouTube channels of the type that make Dallas Mitch and his Romeo niche-famous in the story. Sadly I've never found evidence of a Romance by Frequency on them though.
> 
> Other YouTube channels I used for research include: Captain Joe, Mentour Pilot, 74 Gear, Dutch Pilot Girl, Just Planes, Fly With Stella, The History Guy, FloridaFlying, Sam Chui, Swayne Martin, and various news reports. The FAA, NTSB, EASA, TSB, DFW, Boeing, American Airlines, SkyVector, and FlightAware websites also got a lot of traffic from me.
> 
> LiveATC.net is a website that lets you listen to live and recent ATC frequencies which are recorded by local aviation enthusiasts wherever it's legal to do so (sorry UK). This site is why YouTube channels can find funny ATC conversations to post, and why Scott could listen to the radio calls but not the cockpit voice recordings right after the incident.
> 
> I'm not a pilot nor do I work in aviation, but apart from making this somewhat overly dramatic for the sake of a story, I've tried to keep it as realistic as possible, while also simplifying things for readability. There are, no doubt, a number of errors along with the omissions, some of which I'm already aware of, most of which I'm probably not. Apologies to any more aviation-savvy readers who pass by.
> 
> As I said before, the accident which occurs in this story is entirely fictional; there have been several reports of windshields cracking in Boeing 787s, however none shattered or detached, and the pilots all had plenty of time to divert and land, even those who were mid-ocean when the crack occurred. At the time of posting, no 787 has been involved in a fatal incident of any kind.
> 
> Loss of a windshield has occurred on two commercial flights, British Airways Flight 5390 and Sichuan Airlines Flight 8633. Neither of these planes was a 787. In both cases, a pilot was partially sucked out of the aircraft, however also in both cases, the flight crew successfully landed the plane and everyone survived, including the pilots who spent time outside the aircraft.
> 
> It's an often stated platitude, but commercial flying really is the safest way to travel. If this story has led you to believe you'd be safer driving next time you have a cross-country or cross-continental trip, statistics would strongly disagree. Happy flying, at least once travel is a thing that once again regularly happens.
> 
> You would not believe the number of false starts and discarded ideas this story involved. Aviation channels are a gold mine and I'm truly sad I couldn't include more and still keep the storyline readable. XD
> 
> If you have any questions, things you don't understand or want clarity about, please feel free to ask.
> 
> EDIT: I may or may not be posting outtakes and oneshots based on this AU [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058522).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On A Wing and A Swear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098549) by [FreyaOdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin)
  * [No Wind Beneath Anyone's Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29387496) by [FreyaOdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin)
  * [Hypoxia's A Bitch - Deleted Scene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489211) by [FreyaOdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin)




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